A Flag of Truce

by David Donachie

  ‘At least I think my father would have agreed with you there.’

  ‘For the very reason that he hated monarchs, laddie, Stuart or any other, which borders on blasphemy. He was a contentious man when his humour failed and I often wonder if it was just disputation or principle that was his abiding animation.’

  ‘Let me assure you, sir, that it was principle.’

  An aide entered and placed before Elphinstone a sheaf of reports, which he began to read, leaving Pearce nursing his glass in silence. In a haze of slight inebriation, brought on by wine and Armagnac, Pearce could recall his father in his prime – a fast-walking busy man, not the broken invalid he had last set eyes on – the fire in the eyes, the passion in the voice as he harangued crowds all over the land, seeking to bring them to a realisation of their plight as exploited labour. This took place while son John plied the crowd and tried to collect enough in his hat to pay for a decent night’s lodging and a good dinner. Sometimes they got an invite to the nearest great house; odd how they had often been on the receiving end of hospitality from the very people his father condemned, rich men on big estates, who seemed happy to have under their roof, and to dispute with, a radical orator who wanted to burn their mansions over their heads, as well as give their land to their tenants. At other times Adam and John Pearce had been obliged to sleep in the open, or, if it was too cold, in a barn or a byre.

  Yet it had been a happy time in the main, when as a boy should, he believed what his father advocated and trusted whatever he said had to be true. Occasionally they settled for a short period and he was forced to attend school, there to defend those parental ideas with fist and feet, teeth and elbow, this taking place out of the sight of masters who, when they were sober enough to wield the birch, saw that as the way to drum knowledge into young heads.

  ‘Army of Italy!’ barked Elphinstone.

  That dragged Pearce out of a reverie in which the many hardships he had suffered, the Fleet prison included, seemed to be overborne by the good times; sunlit days, fishing, or tickling trout in sparkling streams, abundant apples on trees, with one eye out for a bailiff, eating heartily in Post House Inns amongst folk travelling from one place to another, all with a tale to tell to an eager young ear, at other times striding out along country roads to shouted greetings from those toiling to get in the harvest, occasionally sharing a pail of beer, and a memory of a parent who cared mightily to make sure his son was educated by patient instruction, giving him a smattering of Greek, Latin, of counting and grammar, plus his own interpretation of history.

  ‘Damned fool name for a rabble.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘That mob of bare-arsed villains, who hold us in from the east, who favour themselves with this grandiloquent soubriquet. The Army of Italy be damned and if the man commanding them is a general I am a regimental goat. If they have ten pairs of boots between them I would be amazed, but it seems they are stirring, laddie, which is not good news.’

  Captain Elphinstone dropped his voice, not to a whisper exactly but low enough to avoid being overheard, as though the French were listening in the walls. ‘We wanted them supine, which they have been, thank God, since they hauled their bare feet from the Po Valley. Containing Carteaux to the west is task enough with what we have. If Lapoype…’

  Seeing John Pearce’s confusion, he quietly enlightened him.

  ‘Their general, most likely a sergeant afore the upheavals, and a timid scunner at that. He has sat on his arse doing nothing, which suited us just fine.’ He picked up one of the reports. ‘But this tells me he is stirring to make an assault on the L’Artigues and Fort Faron.’

  ‘Will he succeed?’

  ‘Never, laddie, but any assault draws troops from the west for the defence, and no doubt we will lose men we can ill afford to drive him back.’ Elphinstone looked at the report in his hand again, and when he had re-read it, he waved it at Pearce. ‘This does not tell me near enough. I need a man to go to Fort Faron and give me a clear picture, and if necessary take some action to contain him. That you will do in the morning. I will have you roused out an hour before dawn.’

  Suddenly Pearce was a little more sober. ‘With respect, sir, I do not feel qualified to give you what you need. I have no knowledge of military tactics.’

  ‘Laddie,’ Elphinstone said emphatically. ‘You are a Scot and a proven fighter, as well as the holder of a King’s commission and the son of a born troublemaker. That, sir, will dae me.’

  Neither the taste in Pearce’s mouth, nor the fur on his tongue, was in any way eliminated by the hurried breakfast of bread, a fruit compote, and coffee, consumed long before first light. Taking from his kit all that he would need, he found Elphinstone’s clerk had written orders for him, which meant that his master had stayed up long after Pearce had staggered off to bed. Outside the citadel stood a file of soldiers from the 11th Regiment of Foot and a group of sailors he was to take up to the position. The soldiers were under the command of a weary-looking lieutenant called Dilnot, to whom he would have happily surrendered command, but a naval lieutenant outranked a red-coated one, and the fellow showed no sign of seeking to dispute his rights.

  ‘Arsenal first,’ said Pearce, having read his orders. ‘We are to haul some cannon up those hills.’

  The expression on the faces of the sailors was indicative enough of the undesirability of that task. Toulon sat in a bowl of mountainous terrain and anything going out to the defences, barring the road to Marseilles, meant going up a steep incline. Oxen, he was quietly informed by Robertshaw, the coxswain in charge of the sailors, could only do so much; manpower had to be employed, and he managed to make it plain that his tars would not take it kindly if the bullocks, soldiers drafted to serve in a marine capacity by the exigencies of war, thought they could just march alongside toiling seamen.

  At the Arsenal, by the French fleet’s gun wharf, the dockyard mateys, none of whom spoke a word of English, aided by his party, loaded nine-pounder cannon, weighing near two tons, and their separate trunnions, onto heavy-duty ox-drawn wagons, as well as the shot and powder that would serve them. Two cable-length pieces of rope were added as well, along with some lighter hemp, a couple of double blocks and some chain.

  ‘Lieutenant, I wish your men to divest themselves of their weapons, equipment and red coats.’ Dilnot looked at him with raised eyebrows, forcing him to continue. ‘It will be quicker for us if we all work to get the guns into position. I have no desire to be on the roadway in too much of the midday sun.’

  ‘Water,’ said Dilnot.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The town is well supplied with clean drinking water. Might I suggest, sir, that the provision of that will make matters easier, especially when the sun is at full strength. That and some biscuit. As for midday, I doubt we will reach our destination before it is the naval time for dinner.’

  ‘Make it so, Mr Dilnot,’ Pearce replied, adding, as the redcoat turned to issue orders, ‘and thank you for bringing to my attention something I should have thought of myself.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Would it be possible to dispense with that too, Mr Dilnot? It is a courtesy only.’

  That brought forth a smile. ‘Happily, Mr Pearce.’

  ‘Should you perceive any other errors of mine, please feel free to point them out. A naval officer ashore cannot surely be as knowledgeable as a soldier.’ Pearce then indicated two of the largest and most muscular soldiers. ‘We want two levers in their hands, long ones, to use as rear brakes. I fear the oxen will need regular rest, too.’

  ‘And the men, Mr Pearce, let us not forget the men.’

  It was a bedraggled bunch that finally made it to the redoubt facing the so-called Army of Italy. The oxen had found the pavé streets of Toulon hard enough, but they soon ran out, and it became a struggle on rutted tracks that had dried hard throughout the summer months, tracks that would become quagmires at the first serious downpour. Pearce had occasion to be thankful for both Dilnot, who marshalled hi
s men well, and the coxswain from HMS Swiftsure. Robertshaw knew what to do without detailed instructions and frequent halts were required so that the sailors could rig lines with the stouter cable that helped the oxen on the steeper parts of the ascent, the two men at the rear also aiding that when they halted by anchoring the wheels.

  By the time they were halfway to the top, Pearce had removed his heavy blue coat and asked Dilnot if he wished to do the same with his red one, so that they became, even if their shirts were linen rather than flannel, indistinguishable from their men. And taking Dilnot’s point, Pearce made sure that everyone drank copiously, though the sailors were very vocal regarding the lack of the small beer to which they were accustomed, and adamant that it should have been replaced by wine.

  Pearce, nursing the dull ache of a hangover, was quite brusque. ‘I will tell you, and I have walked further and in hotter weather than this, that fresh water is best. Now belay your moaning, and rig the lines for the next section of track.’

  Finally they created the rise and got onto flattish ground, their speed much more satisfying as they approached the rear entry port to the redoubt. The fellow who greeted them, another naval lieutenant, had no idea, with their coats off, that he was addressing officers of any service. He began to berate the entire party for what he saw as their slow pace and general appearance. Pearce, that dull ache of a hangover adding to his irritation, positively yelled at him, demanding the date of his commission, which was considerably longer than his own. So he lied, added four years to the date of his elevation, declined to give his name and left the poor fellow mumbling apologies for his presumption.

  While the ox-wagons were laagered, Pearce and Dilnot, now properly dressed, had both produced telescopes to run their eyes over the French positions. Even Pearce could tell they, somewhat higher than their redoubt and over a mile away, were out of effective range of the cannon they had brought up, as well as the ordnance already in place, but he could not tell much more, except there was a mass of activity.

  ‘They are making fascines,’ Dilnot said, ‘and ladders.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Pearce replied, wondering how he could see in a mass of moving bodies what they were up to.

  ‘So they are definitely preparing an assault. It will be bloody and I doubt, if this position is properly manned, they will succeed.’

  ‘How long have you been a soldier, Mr Dilnot?’

  ‘I am a forced marine now, Mr Pearce. I have been a soldier most of my life and I would dearly like to return to that occupation.’

  Pearce did not want to get into a dispute about the status of army men obliged to switch their service; he had other concerns. ‘Captain Elphinstone has asked me to make an appreciation of the situation, and I candidly admit to being at a loss to know what to tell him.’

  The glass stayed at Dilnot’s eye, but the response was good humoured. ‘Then, sir, you are the only officer I have ever met of any service who admits to ignorance.’

  ‘What do you observe?’

  Dilnot did not answer for a full minute, simply sweeping his telescope slowly back and forth, but Pearce knew he was thinking and he appreciated the care the man was taking before replying.

  ‘Left to make their preparations the French will attack at a time of their own choosing. Bad weather is not unknown in these parts and we are slipping towards October. If they carry out their assault on a wet and windy night, the rain will make the cannon difficult to load and fire, while the wind will go a great way to covering the sound of their approach. So it will require a substantial body of men to be placed here to be sure of holding them.’

  ‘Without knowing for how long?’ asked Pearce.

  ‘If you are a self-confessed novice, sir, you have at least seen what they are about. The only men that can hold this position will have to be drawn off from those facing General Carteaux. Their absence presents him with an opportunity to push forward his own positions to increase the threat to the anchorage.’

  ‘Is there an alternative?’

  ‘Mr Pearce, in war there is always an alternative.’

  Dilnot was sweeping his small telescope around the surrounding landscape again. ‘Might I borrow your naval glass, Mr Pearce, it is more powerful than mine.’ That to his eye, Dilnot kept talking. ‘The best way to avoid having to move troops to here is to disrupt whatever preparations they are making over yonder.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Cause casualties. Break up their piles of ladders, set fire to their fascines, which will be tinder dry, perhaps even blow to hell the general’s tent.’

  ‘Cannon fire?’ When Dilnot nodded, Pearce added. ‘At this range.’

  ‘What if we could get closer?’

  ‘Can we?’

  Dilnot pointed to a rocky outcrop, halfway to the French position, slightly below the level of the enemy encampment. ‘If we could get a pair of these nine-pounders out there, then we could give them a warm time.’

  Pearce was looking at the terrain in between, boulder-strewn scrub with the odd stunted tree bent over by the wind. ‘Judging by the job we had getting the guns up here, I cannot see that would be easy.’

  ‘Easy, no, Mr Pearce,’ the redcoat replied eagerly, ‘but possible. A bold stroke.’

  The army man was excited, obvious even if he was trying to cover it up, which had Pearce wondering at his enthusiasm for his bold stroke. But he had to surmise there was a chance of advancement in the military for something outstanding. Even if they did buy their commissions, a hike in rank could be achieved by success.

  ‘I fear, Mr Dilnot, that you must tell me, for I would not dare to give an opinion.’

  That came quickly. ‘We would need two cannon on lighter carts, with trunnions, beams and pulleys to make a hoist, a path cleared just wide enough to make possible their passage and teams of sailors to get them onto the carts and to pull them, once used, back into our lines. The trunnions we can leave.’

  ‘They will not sit still and let our cannon destroy their encampment.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I may have little military knowledge, but I do know, Mr Dilnot, that losing guns is a cardinal sin. That is a transgression I have no notion to commit and whatever was achieved would surely be only temporary.’

  ‘I do believe, Mr Pearce, Lord Hood anticipates that we will be reinforced.’

  ‘Indeed?’

  Dilnot was genuinely surprised at that display of ignorance. ‘Have you not heard, sir? There are Austrian and Neapolitan troops on the way, and a request has been sent for the Gibraltar garrison, who are sitting idle when the Dons are our allies. And there may well be a draft from England. What we gain by delaying their assault could be immeasurable. Let me explain.’

  ‘Please do so.’

  Pearce had to return to the citadel to advise Captain Elphinstone, so he had Dilnot make plain his ideas, execute a drawing of the ground, write down the possible outcomes and work out the times needed to execute his bold stroke, one he insisted was better than sitting waiting to be attacked. Back at the fort, Pearce was waiting, as the Post Captain rode up on a stout, short pony, that had his legs near touching the ground.

  ‘It might be inelegant, Pearce,’ he shouted, ‘but by God it is better than walking round the defences.’ Elphinstone dismounted, rubbing his backside, which was clearly a source of pain and discomfort. ‘So, what is the position, as you see it at the Faron redoubt?’

  ‘I consulted with an army officer, sir,’ Elphinstone nodded in approval, ‘and he has suggested the following course of action.’

  Pearce outlined what was really Dilnot’s plan, but he not attending, it left him with no alternative to mention as often as possible that he had been in receipt of military advice.

  ‘Yes, yes, laddie,’ Elphinstone barked, when he said it for a tenth time. ‘Get to the point.’

  He did so, aware of, and ashamed that it was beginning to sound as though he had formulated these ideas himself. ‘The first task, sir, is to go out after dark and clear a
route. The primary part of the evacuation, getting the guns out over the defences, will not be a problem, but we will need a stout body of men on the last part to haul the guns back in. If we succeed, it will give the French pause and may even disrupt their plans to the point where they abandon any idea of an assault.’

  Elphinstone slapped him on the back. ‘There! I knew you were a warrior, Pearce, most Scots are. It is in the blood, and it’s a damned good job we have stopped being so disputatious with each other.’

  ‘Do you know of a Lieutenant Dilnot, sir?’ said Pearce, wishing to shift the praise.

  The response was surprising. ‘That poltroon. Don’t mention his name to me ever, Pearce. The man is a damned coward, proved in battle. He failed at Oullioles and got killed a good man called Douglas, a fellow Scot as you will discern by the name. Should you come across him do what any decent officer would do. Snub him!’

  Pearce was too dumfounded to respond, as Elphinstone went back to his small pony and stiffly remounted. ‘I need to go aboard Victory and report to Lord Hood. Give my clerk what you need in writing. I assume you will begin the clearing straightaway, as we are without a moon.’

  ‘Of course, sir,’ said Pearce, who had only just realised that there would be, on this night, nothing more than a sliver of moon. Dilnot had, no doubt, calculated on that too.

  Chapter Five

  Pearce went out with the marine party in a borrowed greatcoat, relying on starlight to see his way, which led to many a stumble and under-the-breath cursing. Dilnot had thrown out a screen of armed skirmishers well ahead, with orders not to fire their muskets unless absolutely necessary, to protect those clearing a path from being disturbed. At the same time the party of sailors, under their competent coxswain, were laying out a pair of cables fetched from the arsenal and rigging blocks to stakes that a unit of sappers had sunk into the ground behind the ramparts to the redoubt; running the guns up the slope to that defence work, no doubt being pursued by the French, was not an option. The night was warm, with wind enough to rustle what foliage existed on such a barren landscape, with the odd clink of metal touching something solid freezing everyone in case it was the enemy patrolling prior to an attack, looking for a prisoner who could tell them the nature and numbers of the defence.