The Admirals' Game

by David Donachie

  Pearce had looked at Parker closely then; a great deal of what had happened at La Rochelle had not been entered in the ship’s log, while every member of the Faron’s crew had been sworn to secrecy. Had it leaked out? Was that why he was being elbowed into undertaking this mission? Parker’s next words at least eased his concerns on that score.

  ‘It’s no different to the mission you embarked on here before we took over Toulon.’

  Pearce had been sent on a mission to contact the senior French officers with an offer from Hood. His first trip had proceeded smoothly; the second had not. ‘Might I remind you, sir, that on that occasion I came close to forfeiting my life?’

  ‘You were,’ Parker replied unctuously, ‘at some risk, Lieutenant, but I doubt your life was threatened.’

  And it is one, Pearce thought, you would surrender without turning a hair. He kept that to himself. Under Parker’s hand lay the transcripts of Ralph Barclay’s court martial. That was the proposed arrangement: help get those two frigates out of Villefranche and into the harbour at Toulon and he would be allowed to see the actual testimony each witness had given, priceless if he was to nail the participants for perjury.

  ‘Cap Ferrat coming up dead ahead, sir,’ called Neame. ‘We will open the Bay of Villefranche as soon as we clear it.’

  ‘Mr Harbin, see to the flag of truce.’

  The boy rushed to obey and within a minute the ensign of a vice admiral’s command was lowered to be replaced with a huge expanse of billowing pure white, made large so there could be no mistaking the mission on which the ship was engaged.

  ‘Mr Pearce, I would suggest it is time for you to change from your working garments into your best uniform.’

  Weathering the low rocky outcrop of Cap Ferrat, the depth and suitability of the bay was immediately obvious, as were the two fine frigates laying at double anchor under fortress guns, sails bowed up tight to their yards, while behind, fronted by a long strand of near-white sand and a small harbour full of fishing boats, stood a walled town of light-brown stone. The high castle, which protected the ships, was well placed to defend the whole anchorage and, judging by the movement, the sight of HMS Faron had brought people to the battlements. Could they be gunners? Digby had orders to do nothing to alarm any defenders; he was to stay out of range of land-based or ships’ cannon and send Pearce in by boat.

  Neame brought the sloop up into the wind, backing her sails to kill any forward motion and, once stationary, the cutter was hauled in from its tow, to be stepped with a stanchion bearing a smaller replica flag of truce. Michael O’Hagan was first into the boat, hiding a pair of cutlasses under the thwarts, having said loudly before they ever opened the bay that he ‘would need to go along with John-boy, and armed, given his habit of getting into trouble.’

  Pearce had availed himself of a canvas satchel, which he slung over his shoulder and as soon as he clambered inelegantly down into the cutter – it was not an art he had mastered, the transfer from ship to boat on a swell – the man acting as coxswain ordered the lines to be cast off.

  ‘Easy now, lads,’ Pearce said. ‘No haste is necessary.’

  ‘Sure it will be grand if that be the case on our return,’ said O’Hagan.

  Usually John Pearce took Michael’s comments in good grace. Not this time; the Irishman got a cold glare.

  As they approached the side of the first frigate, the one bearing a commodore’s pennant, Pearce called out the name of his vessel, only realising that with it being named after the mountain that enclosed Toulon, it might act as a red rag, especially to men who would very likely know the ship. To them, if they did recognise her, it would be by her original French name of Mariette. In order to cover that potential gaffe he shouted ‘Ahoy!’ as well.

  ‘Bandine,’ came the reply.

  In French, Pearce asked for permission to close, and that was granted until, under the lee of the ship’s scantlings, he found himself talking to a youngish fellow in a scruffy light-blue coat, who identified himself as ‘un sous-lieutenant de vaisseau.’

  The bearer of the satchel was obliged to identify himself in a manner which always made him feel like a fraud, whatever language he used. ‘Lieutenant John Pearce, de la marine du roi britannique. Je voudrais parler avec votre capitaine, monsieur.’

  ‘Malheureusement, mon capitaine n’ est pas ici.’

  Further questioning established that both captains, of Bandine as well as the other frigate Vestale, were living ashore, not on their ships, which given the fact that a formidable enemy fleet was not far off, was pretty slack behaviour. But, of course, Villefranche was, like every bay on this part of the coast, backed by high hills, which provided good advance warning of any hostile approach. Indeed his ship must have been spotted and reported on well before it ever weathered Cap Ferrat.

  Pearce explained that he had letters for those officers, and who they were from, which got him no more than a Gallic shrug. With no notion of how to proceed he enquired when they would be likely to be aboard, only to be given a second gesture of ignorance. As this had not been anticipated he had no option but to ask this junior lieutenant to send a message ashore and ask if they would consent to a meeting, a request which was agreed, leaving Pearce to wonder if he should just lay off and wait, or row back and hope for some kind of signal.

  To just wallow here off the side of the frigate would imply a degree of nervousness, and apart from that he had no idea how long such a wait would be. The boat had neither water nor any other means of sustenance – they would be sat here under a hot sun with no protection and in grave danger of the oarsmen missing their dinner – so after another brief exchange he arranged that a signal gun should be fired as soon as someone he could talk to had come aboard.

  ‘Out of their ships, Pearce,’ said Digby, in the cool of his cabin, this to an inferior who would dearly have liked to slip off his coat. ‘Of course, they do things differently in the French Navy, but we would likely be keelhauled for such a dereliction.’

  ‘It does not indicate an excess of zeal.’

  ‘Which makes easier your mission, does it not? I rather feared we might open the bay to find those two frigates with their guns run out and their sails set ready to engage.’

  ‘And no doubt,’ Pearce responded in a slightly querulous tone, ‘you would have been obliged to send me over to parley with them regardless.’

  ‘I would, indeed. I have my orders.’

  A slight boom reverberated across the anchorage, but protocol obliged Digby to wait to be told what it portended. ‘Mr Harbin’s compliments, sir, the Frogs have just fired a signal gun.’

  ‘Mr Pearce.’

  Another slow trip between vessels brought him face to face with the same fellow, only to find that the officers he hoped to meet were still ashore, though there was a written invitation that he and his captain, once the Frenchman had established there was one, should meet his superiors on land, under their flag of truce. All the toing and froing had used up the day; the sun was well on its way to sinking in the west, so Pearce suggested a meeting early in the morning.

  ‘Any possibility of devilry, Mr Pearce?’ asked a worried Digby.

  ‘I cannot say it is impossible, sir, though I rate it unlikely. They will hardly come after us in the dark when they could have done so easily in the day. Besides, we are under a truce flag.’

  ‘I have had occasion to doubt the protection of that before.’

  ‘And I seem to recall it was misplaced, sir.’

  ‘Nevertheless we will haul off tonight and get ourselves some sea room as a precaution.’

  ‘The invitation to go ashore extends to us both,’ Pearce reminded him.

  ‘I know,’ Digby replied, with a slight furrowing of the brow. ‘But I do not see what my presence adds to things. Let me sleep on it.’

  John Pearce had not enjoyed his day any more than he relished his mission, and he was beginning to feel like a sacrificial lamb, this while his superior sat out in the bay ready to flee if m
atters went awry.

  ‘It would be a shame to jeopardise matters for an exercise of caution which may prove unnecessary, sir.’ Just before Digby welled up to protest at an imputation of excessive personal caution, Pearce added, ‘I doubt it is something Lord Hood would appreciate.’

  Digby repeated his decision to sleep on it, but Pearce knew, in the face of that comment, he would not be going ashore alone.

  Sir William Hotham toyed with the hard-shelled nut in his hand, while in the other the implement designed to crack it lay idle. His mind was not, however, in the same state; in fact, if it could be said to be so in such an individual, it was agitated, and the cause was Ralph Barclay. Had he gone too far in support of the fellow and exposed himself? And how was he going to tell him that his proposed elevation to a 74-gun ship had been denied by Hood without a loss of face?

  To be second-in-command of a fleet was enough to chafe at the soul of any man, to be inferior to a man with whom you had nothing in common was purgatory. His views, prior to the takeover in Toulon, had been ignored. Hood, with Parker advising him, had made an arrangement with the French admiral Trogoff that smacked to Hotham of disloyalty to his own fellow sailors and his government. What did the man mean by holding the enemy fleet in trust? Was he proposing, should the Revolution collapse, to hand back to a restored French king all the ships now under British control?

  Hotham’s correspondence with his political allies at home had certainly questioned the arrangement and if they had not gone as far as to doubt Hood’s sanity, they had most certainly implied that his judgement was deeply flawed, the concomitant of that being he should be relieved, which would naturally mean his own rise to the command. So far he had good grounds, taken from the replies he had received, to feel his views were considered sound, which meant his supporters could apply pressure on William Pitt and a king who had no love for Lord Hood, to call the man home. Farmer George might prove sticky – he disliked Whigs more than he disliked Hood.

  Yet that damned court martial, if represented to those same correspondents in the wrong way, could entirely undermine his position. If Hood carried out his threat to add a reservation on the judgement to his confirmation – no doubt laying all the possible questions at the Hotham door – it would almost certainly prompt a degree of curiosity by the Board of Admiralty, of which Hood was still, albeit in absentia, a member. It might even develop into a full enquiry if Hood felt the need to ensure his innocence in any wrongdoing.

  If anyone had said to William Hotham’s face that he was a political admiral he would have happily accepted the designation; to him, all admirals were politicians, the only difference being the degree of their ability to navigate the shark-infested waters of that dubious world. Hood was a dyed-in-the-wool Tory, he, Hotham, was a loyal Whig, but enough of a pragmatist to see why the Duke of Portland had decided to join the government; this damned French Revolution had to be defeated before it consumed the whole of Europe with its pernicious doctrines. Party politics could be put in abeyance until that was achieved.

  Being a self-confessed politician meant his mind would not long chase a problem; instead he began to look for solutions. First he had to disappoint Barclay, but that he would do in such a way as to ensure Hood would bear the brunt of that man’s anger, and in such a way as to limit the damage to his own standing. The next thing he needed was intimate knowledge of the truth: what had actually happened that night Barclay had gone pressing men in the Liberties of the Savoy? Looking at his copy of the transcript, one name leapt out at him. He could not ask Ralph Barclay for candour, that would be too demeaning in the request, and he doubted if it would be entirely honest in the explanation.

  ‘Willis,’ he called, and in seconds his first secretary appeared. ‘I have a mind to ask Captain Barclay and his wife to dinner.’

  ‘Would tonight be suitable, sir? You are hosting a dinner for General O’Hara and the newly arrived officers from Gibraltar.’

  Hotham nodded slowly, then added, ‘And since one of Captain Barclay’s midshipmen is nephew to his wife, it might be a kindness to have him along too.’

  ‘I have no desire to dine with an admiral,’ Emily insisted, still flustered to find her husband visiting her at the hospital.

  Given his duties ashore and hers here, they now saw very little of each other, which suited Emily if it did not Ralph Barclay. In his mind she was the author of all their disagreements, having completely forfeited what he saw as her first duty: loyalty to him as his spouse. It never entered his head that Emily’s view was the polar opposite; she saw his behaviour as shameful, his many deceits as contemptible, and the naval practices he not only defended, but as she had observed, was happy to apply, as bordering on barbarism.

  ‘I fear, Mrs Barclay, I must insist. You may not appreciate how necessary it is for a man of my rank to have a senior officer as a sponsor in the service, but I do, and since Sir William has undertaken that role, for you to refuse to attend would be nothing short of an insult, and moreover one that could harm my standing in his eyes.’

  ‘I can plead an indisposition.’

  ‘You cannot.’

  ‘We shall see if that is the case.’

  For the first time in their married life, Ralph Barclay treated her with the same lack of consideration he habitually used with other people. In his mind, at that precise moment, he saw himself as being too indulgent of his wife, and because of that he had allowed her to misunderstand the duties that went with married life. He would not beat her, though there was no law that barred him from doing so, but he would command her; it had to be. There was no other way for a man and wife to coexist if the lesser female party was not going to comply with the standard expected of them.

  ‘This discussion is at an end. I am your husband and you will obey me. The cutter will come for you at one of the clock. Shenton will have ready your wardrobe so you may select what you are going to wear. Dinner is at three and we must be aboard HMS Britannia well before that time. Please be advised, my dear, that my men will be instructed to ensure your return to HMS Brilliant, and as their captain they will obey me.’

  For a moment, as a way of softening his stricture, Ralph Barclay was tempted to tell her of his proposed promotion, but he decided to do as he had so far: keep it to a more suitable moment – she would surely see in that a vindication of his actions. Not that he thought one was required, but to a person not familiar with the ways of the Navy, and especially to a woman, it might prove necessary. No, he would wait and let it be a surprise, perhaps coming from the lips of Sir William Hotham and, in a cabin not dissimilar in size to the one to which she would be moving, Emily would begin to comprehend things that were to her, now, mysterious.

  ‘Sir William had also, as a courtesy to you, asked that we take along Toby.’

  With a clear notion of the way the youngster had avoided her recently, Emily replied. ‘I doubt he will want to come.’

  ‘Nonsense. You may have little idea of the flattering nature of such an invitation, but I am sure your nephew is somewhat wiser. Midshipmen not serving on flagships are rarely issued with such a chance to impress.’

  ‘You are sure Toby will impress?’

  Ralph Barclay misunderstood the irony in his wife’s tone. ‘He will, as long as he behaves himself.’

  ‘I fear, my dear Emily,’ said Heinrich Lutyens, ‘that I must advise you to do as you are asked.’

  ‘So you, too, subscribe to the notion of woman as an inferior being.’

  ‘You will be telling me that you were not raised to accept as true that very estate.’

  Those words prompted a wan smile from Emily Barclay; she had indeed been so raised. Had not her mother deferred to her father in all things, even when he had patently been in the wrong, using subterfuge to gain her ends rather than confrontation? That had been the advice she had been given before her nuptials – how to get her own way while seeming to succumb to the male viewpoint – along with the information that men had weaknesses of a carnal
nature, which must be indulged whenever the demand was made.

  She was no stranger to the vision of procreation; there had been enough of that going on at home in the chicken run, the pig pens and the paddock to make it plain to even the blind. Odd that taking for granted what animals did, never translated into an early explanation of what would be required of her. She had wondered why her mother had waited till the night before her wedding to tell her certain things. After the wedding night she knew very well; it had been damned unpleasant, and although since then she had approached her husband’s advances with less in the way of fear, it could hardly be said to be an uplifting obligation.

  ‘The Navy is a small world, my dear,’ Lutyens continued. ‘Your relations with your husband are, I should think, already common knowledge.’

  ‘You mean I am the subject of gossip?’

  ‘Very likely, and to avoid being more so, indeed to avoid the unwelcome attentions of those who might seek to take advantage of it, for there are as many rakes in the service as there are in other walks of life, I should go with your husband, and behave in a manner to allay such talk.’

  ‘You are a cruel friend, Heinrich.’

  ‘But I am a friend, Emily.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  In the fresh dawn light, on the quayside, the two British officers were surprised to be greeted by a guard of honour, the salute of weapons executed in a disciplined manner neither man associated with the present soldiery of the French Republic. The fellow who brought them to the salute was another, more senior lieutenant, and he did so, hat raised high, with a civility more redolent of the old days of the monarchy. He also, to Digby’s delight, spoke very reasonable English.

  ‘It is my pleasure, messieurs, to ask you to accompany me to the headquarters of the port captain, where my superiors await your attendance.’