The cry of the boat bringing over Linzee’s dispatch was muffled by the scantlings but audible enough to dent that trough of depression, and there was no missing the chanting that went with the hands manning the capstan to haul the ship over her anchor. Feet overhead thudded the deck as they hauled on the falls to get home the sheets, and with the timbers creaking and cracking, Pearce felt the motion as the ship got under way. As soon as the sense of movement became regular, the screen was pulled back to reveal the massively freckled face of young Midshipman Harbin, hat held high to reveal his carrot-coloured hair.
‘Captain’s compliments, sir, but he requests that you take your proper station on the quarterdeck.’
‘Thank you, Mr Harbin, I shall oblige presently.’
Slowly Pearce donned his uniform coat and, looking into the rather scratched mirror hung on the bulkhead, he examined the glum face that greeted him with some care, noticing how the Mediterranean sun had taken the skin, making it darker. Then he put on his hat, adjusted it to the angle he thought suitable and, bent to avoid the overhead deck beams, he made his way to the companionway and up on to the quarterdeck, lifting his own hat as he sighted the captain.
Digby, having spotted him first, before he fully appeared, was actually looking anxious, as though he feared to face his premier, but that act of salute caused him to relax. Everyone else on deck studiously avoided eye contact.
‘With your permission, sir,’ Pearce said, ‘I would like to take a last look at the shore.’
‘It will not cheer you, Mr Pearce, but please feel free to do so.’
Stood by the taffrail, Pearce watched as the shore receded, till the mast and sails of the vessels anchored there blended and disappeared into the haze caused by the heat from the land. In his mind’s eye he could see Ben Walker, bent under a sack of grain, or flinching from yet another blow from that overseer’s whip, and it was with no feeling of disgrace that he felt the tears begin to prick the corners of his eyes.
Ben Walker was as surprised as his overseer when the soldiers who had faced down John Pearce returned and took him away. Marched through the narrow streets he was taken to a side door in the Bey’s palace and flung down a set of steps to an iron gate. Some words were exchanged between his escort and the man who opened that gate, and Ben lifted himself and his gaze to see the fellow was wearing a set of heavy keys at his waist. Hauled to his feet, he was manhandled along a narrow corridor to a cell, where he was thrown through the open door and that, by the time he had got to his knees, had clanged shut and been locked behind him.
Having no idea why he was there, he had one thought only: he was about to die and that notion stayed with him as time went by, how long he knew not, hours for certain. The key rasping back into the lock made him tense his entire body, as if by doing so he could ward off the fate he knew was coming his way, but the sight of the two burly guards entering to take hold of him caused a release: what point in resistance against such force?
The way they hauled him along the various narrow corridors had the lack of gentility he expected, their tight grip on his upper arms causing actual pain. He was near lifted up a set of stairs, emerging into a sunlit courtyard with a spewing fountain in the centre, one that sprayed his face with a welcome mist of cool water as they passed. The arched doorway they entered at the other side was cool and the passageway decorated with fine mosaics, the floor tiled in intricate design. Finally he was led into a large chamber with a dais at the far end. On that, and a deep set of cushions, squatted a dark-skinned, hook-nosed fellow in a large turban, decorated at the front with a large jewel. Ben Walker was thrown to the floor near his feet.
The Bey of Tunis prided himself that nothing happened in his domains of which he was not aware. The disturbance at the quayside had been reported to him and, curious as to the cause, he had ordered that the reason for the commotion be brought before him. Looking at the recumbent figure, he wrinkled his nose at the stink of Ben’s body, wafting a perfumed nosegay under his chin before he spoke.
Ben had been grabbed by the hair and his head lifted to look. The words addressed to him meant nothing, but were soon translated. His first attempt to reply produced only a croak, which led to a sharp command from hook nose. Water was brought and Ben was allowed to drink and, once sated, the question was repeated.
‘Fell overboard, blasted more like,’ Ben replied, recalling the shot from the Barbary galley which had sent him into the sea. The hatch cover thrown by a couple of his shipmates saved his life, not that it seemed so as he watched the stern of HMS Brilliant diminish in the distance, the galley oars straining to make enough way to overhaul her.
It took time for the story to be related – questions clearly interrupted the translations – but finally the Bey knew the tale, knew that it was that same Musselman galley that had returned to pick up the floating British sailor, and he had learned enough of the language to know that Allah was being praised for his deliverance. Then the interrogation started again: where had he been born, did he know his parents, why was he in the navy?
Of the Pelicans taken up by Ralph Barclay, Ben Walker had always been the most reserved. Not even his closest companions in misfortune knew why he had ended up in the Liberties of the Savoy. The reason for that, to Ben, was simple: his crimes were so serious that he did not face Newgate if taken up by a Tipstaff, he faced the rope. Now there was no reason for dissimulation. He was going to die, either at the hand of this jewelled and turbaned fellow, or on that quayside from sheer exhaustion and a lack of food.
For the first time since he had killed his lovely Lizzie and the silver tongued rogue who had stolen her away he told the truth, described the frenzy in which he had committed murder. He had intended her no harm – it was the rake who had seduced her he was after – but she had tried to stop him from his murderous purpose and in doing so had become, too, a victim. As he came to that part of his tale, he started to weep, wondering, even though he had just filled his belly with water, where the fluid could come from for such copious tears.
Racked with sobs, he heard hook nose rasp out a command and the two toughs who had brought him to this place came forward again. Yet this time their grip was gentle as they raised him to his feet, until he found himself looking again at a man he would soon discover to be the Bey of Tunis.
The translator spoke again. ‘His Excellency orders that you be taken from here, fed, looked after and brought back to heath. Once you are well he wishes for you to be instructed in the works of the Prophet. What do you say?’
It was sheer inspiration that had Ben Walker reply, ‘Allah be praised!’
CHAPTER TWENTY
Sick of being on the receiving end of bombardment, Ralph Barclay was cheered that, at last, something was being done. Intelligence on events in the French camp was good, though not as precise, it was suspected, as the amount of knowledge the Jacobins had about matters inside the perimeter. Toulon had its spies: dissatisfied indigenes and those pretending to be refugees, while it was suspected that the Dons were not all as committed to the overthrow of the Revolution as they should be – Britain had been an enemy of Spain for so long it was hard to see the armies of Albion as allies – this while every fishing smack and small boat that continued to sail in and out of the port, supposedly carrying on their lawful trade, provided a constant source of information to the enemy.
It was known, over the past weeks, that the French had changed commanders twice, first moving General Carteaux to Italy and replacing him with an elderly ex-doctor, of impeccable Jacobin credentials, who had something to do with the subjugation of Lyon. When his first assault failed, they sent the old dodderer packing and put in his place a proper career soldier, which boded ill. The first sign of this new influence came with the advent of a battery called Convention, its exact position masked by a thick line of olive trees. No one had observed the construction so when they opened up, at a shorter and more effective range than hitherto, it came as a shock. Worse, it could now play on the town i
tself, with a concomitant effect on morale. It was pointed out to Lord Hood, that if the fellow in charge of the French artillery moved up that long range 44-pound culverin then, single gun it might be, but no part of Toulon, harbour included, would be safe.
Shortage of troops notwithstanding, and general assaults being seen as costly, Convention could not be left in peace, and so it was decided to attack that point, as well as the two other batteries which continually bombarded Fort Malbousquet. Behind the redoubt small groups of men were gathering, from every contingent in Toulon, sailors included, ready to exploit any success achieved by the spearhead. This lay with the British redcoats from Gibraltar, plus heavy allied support, moving out from the southern redoubt, Fort Mulgrave. Led by General Dundas, they intended to take the French batteries on their right flank, nullifying the effect their guns would produce against a frontal attack.
Out in the bay, as twilight fell, the line-of-battle ships, engaged in a daily duel with shore batteries and occasional gunboats, broke off their varying actions, the sound of cannon fire diminishing and dying. As they hauled off to anchor in safety, Ralph Barclay trained his telescope to observe what damage they had sustained, aware that he could see only what lay on the surface. He knew from the commanders he had met and spoken with what they suffered out of plain sight: burst cannon on the lower decks, fires started by red-hot shot, rigging, yards and masts wounded or in tatters, men killed and a constant drip of casualties requiring treatment at the hospital.
He could not help but swing his long glass to take in that long, low building on the St Mandrier Peninsula. Did he hope to see his wife, for the notion at this distance was fanciful? Was his story, that given the level of casualties she had decided to reside there full-time, instead of aboard his ship, believed? He would never know; there was not a man born who would challenge him regarding that, even if they suspected it to be a barefaced lie.
The next object of his attention was HMS Leander, well offshore, not yet engaged, still without a captain, and looking at the 74-gunner led him to wonder how the relationship between Hotham and Hood was progressing, while fearing it was probably getting worse, not better, a situation hardly likely to benefit him.
‘Good day to you, Captain Barclay.’
Spinning round at the calling of his name he found himself face to face with General O’Hara, whose plan, some of which he had sketched out from this very location, was about to be executed. He had with him a clutch of officers who clearly comprised his staff: three young men of fresh face and the stiff-armed major called Lipton, whom he had met at Hotham’s dinner.
‘I have come to observe the action for myself.’
Barclay peered at the ruddy face of the Irish general, wondering if there was, in the words, more than one meaning; he would not be much given to trusting the Spaniards any more than they trusted the Army of the nation that held the Rock of Gibraltar, yet they made up the largest contingent involved in the assault. Having addressed Ralph Barclay, O’Hara turned to observe the men taking up their positions behind the fort, in a depression in the ground that would keep them hidden.
‘Surprise, gentlemen,’ O’Hara said, gravely, ‘pray we gain surprise. Much depends on it.’
‘We have taken as much care as we can, sir.’
‘I know, Lipton, but this place is so full of damned spies…’
O’Hara’s voice trailed off as he lifted a telescope to look at the open ground between Malbousquet and the French positions, uneven, broken up by rocks and scrub, now in light so low the flaring torches of the enemy stood out starkly as pinpricks on a gloomy background. He could not resist a swing to his left, useless as it was, for there would be no sight at this distance of Dundas’s men.
Ralph Barclay was still looking at the depression in the ground, and he was surprised to see arriving, leading a group of sailors, Midshipman Toby Burns. That was bad enough; worse, the boy caught his eye and lifted his hat in salute, making it impossible for his uncle to ignore him. In fact he felt obliged to signal he should come close.
‘What are you doing here?’
Toby Burns tried to hide the fact he thought the question stupid, which it clearly was, and in so arranging his features to do so, brought back to Ralph Barclay every negative memory he had of the boy.
‘I was sent up in charge of a dozen of the crew.’
‘By?’
‘The premier, sir.’ Ralph Barclay was about to say the fellow had made a poor choice, but he bit that off before it could emerge. ‘Our job is to spike the enemy cannon once the assault has cleared their positions.’
If anything those words increased Ralph Barclay’s reservations. The spiking of cannon called for a cool head and strong shoulders, neither of which were possessed by Toby Burns. In any event it was a strange command, the shortage of officers notwithstanding, to give to one so young. Still, the premier of Hotham’s flagship could not be a complete fool; he had probably put under the lad’s command men of the right stripe. Then the inadvertent thought surfaced: perhaps the fellow wanted to get rid of him as much as he had himself.
‘Then I must wish you joy, Mr Burns, of what is, after all, an independent command.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ the boy replied, in a voice that carried with it no trace of pride or enthusiasm. ‘I believe I have Admiral Hotham to thank for the honour.’
The sudden crackle of musketry killed off any further enquiry, and took Ralph Barclay on to the sandbagged ramparts of Fort Malbousquet. Looking to his left down the slope to the village of La Seyne, and beyond that the St Mandrier Peninsula, he could see the flashes of gunfire, from both muzzle and pan, as General Dundas and his men advanced. Those flashes also told him that the attack was progressing steadily, moving, as they were, closer and closer to Poudrière, the nearest French battery.
The counterfire was ragged and uncoordinated, making it obvious that the surprise O’Hara prayed for had been achieved – his plan had eschewed the use of a preliminary bombardment – and soon Ralph Barclay saw the assault moving into the arcs cast by French torches furthest to the left, sweeping straight on to engage the next French position, the middle battery called Farinière. His cannon were ready, loaded and aimed to carry the thick line of olive trees that protected Convention, and he ordered them to fire the few salvos included in the plan, designed to occupy the French gunners and keep them from sweeping down to aid their troubled comrades, while taking care not to rake their own attacking troops.
The guns being discharged three times, they fell silent, leading to a sense of anticlimax. His blood was racing through his veins, for Ralph Barclay was no different to his peers in the service. He was a man who craved action, for only in battle could anything telling be achieved, the kind of stroke which could change a career. He longed to distinguish himself and if it could not be done at sea then it was tempting to try to bring it about on land. Yet, as an officer in the service of the fort in which he was standing, his task was to stay where he was, to be ready to use his own cannon to good effect should the assault become stalled. So be it, if he could not go he could at least get others to engage.
‘Mr Burns,’ he shouted, ‘I believe you may move forward now. Poudrière has fallen and its cannon await you.’
Burns stood there as if his uncle had spoken the whole sentence in a foreign language. What could be seen of his face, in the torchlight, underlined his obvious confusion, which forced Ralph Barclay to shout at him, and that produced a jerk and a movement. He saw rather than heard the boy order his men forward, thinking there was no fire in the commands, no rushing to obey, more a weary fulfilment of a half-hearted directive. The hesitation being intolerable, Barclay’s blood boiled over, and he found himself shouting at the sailors behind Burns, and within seconds, leading them forward over the ramparts.
The air was thick with the smoke from his own guns, causing Ralph Barclay to stumble on the rough ground, his fall arrested by a strong hand, and when he looked he saw the face of the hard case, Devenow, a member
of the party from HMS Brilliant who had been serving on one of the cannon.
‘I got you, capt’n,’ the man growled.
‘You have left your gun, Devenow.’
‘Saw you goin’ forrard, your honour, and reckoned it would be all right to join in.’
There was no time and little inclination to remonstrate; Devenow might be a bully and an endemic drunk, who hoarded his grog, but he was loyal, something he had proved in the past. Pulling himself upright and moving forward again the captain took off his hat and waved it in the air, coughing as the smoke cut off his attempt to yell encouragement.
It was a long half-mile to the ramparts of Poudrière, too much to be taken at a run, so it was a staggering group that hauled themselves up the heavy wood revetting protecting the cannon. Stood atop that, Ralph Barclay, looking north, could see the fight had moved on past Farinière to Convention, though that was being better defended. Some of the musketry, ill aimed or missing its intended target, whistled enough for him to hear it as it went by.
‘Spikes and hammers, Mr Burns.’
It was Devenow who answered. ‘He ain’t here, your honour. We lost him halfways over. Saw him fall.’
‘Damn the boy, we’ll carry on without him.’
‘Don’t know how, capt’n. Seems he had the spikes. We has a hammer an’ nowt to hit.’
Ralph Barclay shouted to one of the men from Britannia. ‘You, get back and see if you can find Mr Burns and those spikes. Devenow, see if the guns are loaded, if not pack them with treble charges and we will ram them into the face of the parapet. Let’s see if we can burst their barrels.’
Another pair of sailors were sent to the powder store, really just coopered casks stacked on top of each other at the very rear of the position, to rig up a fuse, while still more stood by, ready to hack at the trunnion wheels once the guns had been run up into the earthwork, to at least render them immobile. All the while the air was full of distant shouts, the noise of cannon fire, occasional screams, the thunder of the few guns able to be discharged, flames, flaring lights and the sporadic silhouette or sight of men fighting against a cloud-filled sky. Ralph Barclay ignored all of it, concentrating on his self-imposed task, content to assume others were carrying out their orders.
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