There was no need to say the tide would begin to rise a couple of hours before dawn, and peak late morning, or that the rise and fall in Biscay was telling, especially at this time of year, some twenty feet, with a concomitant strong inflow towards the shore.
‘Girth, Mr Neame. I doubt a seventy-four would make it through those twin towers. What beam are we looking at, fifty feet?’
‘It would be a scrape and no error, but they might. See, sir, the French build their ships a might narrower than we do in England. If you have ever been aboard a capture, say like the old Magnamine, like I was as a lad, you will see it has had to be strengthened for the kind of service we put our vessels to, Atlantic gales, Channel storms and the like. Sure they are swift sailers, but they are not as seaworthy in a blow as our’n ’cause of that slim construction.’
‘You think one might actually get through?’
‘Apollon is the most likely, sir. I have had a look at her beam and it is of the margin of some forty-five foot, so she might just shave those towers. Worst that could happen is she would stick, which would render the port unusable.’
‘This is all very well, but that still does not give us any hope of interfering in the execution of…’ Digby paused then, not knowing what to call them. They were no longer their charges. It was Lutyens who filled in for him.
‘Our friends, sir?’
The reply was quite brusque. ‘Are they, Mr Lutyens? I cannot see that drunkard Forcet as that.’
‘I can see a delicious irony in the revolution removing the head of somebody like Captain Jacquelin, given his own dogged loyalty to the cause, but several of those we dined with were men of good character.’
Pearce spoke next. ‘In other circumstances, sir, I would see myself becoming close to Moreau and Garnier. I would also, even on the short acquaintance I have now, consider it a desertion to leave them to their fate.’
‘You are asking me to risk men’s lives, and for all I know this ship, for men who are, even if we would have it otherwise, our enemies.’
‘I am.’
Pearce was tempted to relate to Digby the sight and sound of a revolutionary decapitation; the square en fête, as though the death of some innocent soul was a cause for celebration; flags waving, crowds cheering, the occasional sight of unbridled licentiousness. The traders seeking to profit from it selling food and trinkets, such as cockades made of dyed human hair from previous victims, model guillotines which children could take home to try out on a rat, or if they were as debased as some of the parents, on a household pet. The knock that disturbed his thoughts, as well as the entry, was peremptory, with Harbin’s freckled face suddenly lit by the cabin lanterns.
‘Boat coming alongside, sir, quiet like, and calling out the ship’s old French name when challenged.’
John Pearce was out of the cabin and on to the deck first, to find the men on watch standing by their loaded cannon, looking towards the low glow of gas lighting from the centre of La Rochelle. On a night with a lot of cloud cover, so no moon or stars, those ashore could not be trusted to stay put and Digby had set a watch to cover all eventualities. Barring his own cabin bulkheads, the ship was cleared for action, with deadlights shipped over the stern casements, every gun on both sides of the deck loaded with canister and run out, boarding nets rigged and men in the mainmast cap bearing primed and loaded muskets.
‘Mariette,’ a voice called softly, and Pearce replied just as quietly asking them to approach into the pool of light cast by the ship’s lanterns. They were not stupid these men in the boat; aware there must be a lookout ashore keeping an eye on this sloop, they rowed round to the weather side and came close, hidden by the ship’s bulk. Another call from Pearce had them come alongside, with Digby issuing a sharp command to look lively in case it was some kind of trap, this while his premier carried on a conversation with someone in the boat, quiet words that to everyone else were nothing but murmurings.
‘Get him aboard, Mr Pearce,’ hissed Digby.
‘He won’t come aboard, sir, but what he has to say is interesting.’
‘Interesting to you,’ Digby growled, in a rare show of frustration.
Pearce let that go, instead resuming his conversation with the man bobbing up and down in the boat, which included the passing over of a piece of paper. Asked to wait, Pearce took that to Digby to show him.
‘Who are they?’
‘Men from Apollon and Patriote, sir, though they will give no names.’
‘We have no guarantee they came here without being seen.’
‘They did not come out from the port, and they have told me of a part of the town wall on the south quadrant, so much in disrepair, it has fallen down.’
‘Guards?’ Digby asked, before adding, ‘Not that I’m taken with any notion of going near it.’
‘There is a sentry detail there, but our man tells me that they are slack.’ Sensing that his captain remained unconvinced, Pearce went on. ‘I have seen the calibre of the local National Guard, sir, and they are slovenly in the extreme, with weapons that are so ill maintained I wonder if they could fire, let alone with any accuracy.’
‘They don’t have to be accurate, Mr Pearce, they merely need to make a noise to raise a screaming mob.’
‘And if they are taken care of in such a way they cannot fire their weapons?’
‘Is that what they are promising?’
‘Only that, and I admire the honesty. They will help us to the breach in the wall and point out the guard detail, then it is up to us.’
‘And what would that be?’
‘They cannot do anything close to the town centre and especially the Hotel de Ville. The danger of recognition is too great and while they have a wish to see freed the men due to be condemned, they have no notion to take their place.’
‘Timings?’
‘We must go with them now, allow them to get us into La Rochelle, so we can be in a position to effect a rescue at around dawn. The Revolutionary Tribunal will not meet that early, very likely not till near ten of the clock, and the prisoners are incarcerated in a set of cells under the Hotel de Ville.’
‘And how will you get away?’
‘The harbour is full of boats.’
‘And the walls are well equipped with cannon.’
‘Perhaps you, sir, standing in, could distract them and Mr Neame’s notion might serve as well.’
‘It seems to me you are bent on this.’
That was the first crack in Digby’s inclination to do nothing, and John Pearce exploited it immediately. ‘I would only go ashore with men who had volunteered, and I would not dream of including anyone you deemed necessary to the safety of the ship.’
Digby began to pace, Pearce joining him with an anxious look over his shoulder lest the boatmen from La Rochelle depart. He was anxious to speak to them once more, to add to their plan an idea of his own.
‘How many men?’
‘Half a dozen. One of the mids if they wish, and me in command. At least if I suffer there will be no real loss to the King’s Navy.’
‘You seem to have a wish to continually risk your life, Mr Pearce.’
‘I thought, sir, that was a prerequisite for the role of a commissioned officer.’
‘Responsibility is another, sir!’
There was no doubting the tone of that; Digby was suffering a degree of pique. Not that he would necessarily go himself on such a harebrained adventure; the fact that he did not have the choice is what rankled, the needs of his command coming first.
‘Make your arrangements with the fellows in the boat, then come to the cabin and see if we can concoct some plan to aid you with the help of Mr Neame and Mr Sykes.’
Michael O’Hagan volunteering, once the case was explained to him, left little room for Rufus and Charlie to decline. Martin Dent was there in a flash, and he chided Dysart into putting himself forward by alluding to their previous adventures ashore. Costello, being of dark skin and hair colour, was more of an asset, Dysart
being fair. Needless to say Midshipman Harbin was all for it.
‘Mr Harbin,’ said Pearce, ‘I appreciate your zeal, and I know that having you along would be a plus, yet I would not want to deny Mr Farmiloe the possibility of action, which I think might improve his own opinion of himself.’ The tall youngster looked at him with a steady gaze, as Pearce added, ‘It will not reflect badly on you, Mr Farmiloe, if you decline. There will be no record of it.’
‘Except in my memory, sir.’
‘Then let me once more outline the risks, for I would not want you along just for the sake of your pride. We are going ashore to a town that is in the hands of some of the bloodiest scoundrels the world has ever known. Should we fail, we might get quarter, for our captain has undertaken to bombard the port if any harm should come to us, but there is no guarantee we will not be treated as spies.’
‘And if we succeed?’
‘Then, Mr Farmiloe, you will be able to hold your own at any dinner you attend in your future as a naval officer, for there will be no one at that board who has partaken of an adventure to match this.’
‘Then, sir, I would be grateful if you will include me in your party.’
‘Then get those white breeches off,’ Pearce said, as the other midshipman’s face collapsed, ‘and get into all dark clothes. I am sorry, Mr Harbin, I cannot take you both, but I would be obliged if you would command the boat that will take us ashore.’ Seeing the gleam that appeared in the boy’s eye then, he insisted – producing in doing so another gloomy look – ‘And you will return to the ship as soon as you have enough light to see.’
‘Sorry my old bones will be of no use to you, Mr Pearce,’ said Latimer. ‘Was a time I’d have been first at the gangway.’
‘I don’t doubt it, old friend.’
Blubber Booth cut in. ‘And I won’t volunteer for fear of the sight of me trying to run.’
‘You’ll never make a topman, Blubber, that’s for certain.’
Pearce turned to the rest of the party assembled on the deck, those who had already put themselves forward. Behind him he heard Latimer whisper to Blubber.
‘D’ye hear what he called me? Old friend, he said. That’s the sign of a right gent.’
‘Mr Sykes, wish us luck.’
‘Goes without saying, sir, and I hope Mr Neame and I can do our part.’
‘Just make sure, Sykes, that you do not leave yourselves exposed by delaying too long.’
‘I often thought about fishing you out of the water off Deal, your honour, whether it were right or wrong.’ Pearce had been swimming ashore, with the shingle of Deal beach in sight, seeking to desert, when a strong hand had grabbed him and hauled him into the boat. Sykes had been on the end of that hand, and this was the first time since it had been mentioned. ‘I reckon you would have been seen by the officer of the watch.’
‘As an attempt to get free, it was not the wisest. You felt it was right at the time, Mr Sykes, and that will do me.’
‘You might have got clean away.’
‘You didn’t believe that, did you?’
‘No. Even if you had not been spotted you were new pressed, with no idea of how to avoid the Deal crimps, of which there are any number, God rot them. Barclay would have had you flogged as soon as you were dragged back aboard.’
‘Then I should probably thank you.’
Sykes grinned. ‘That would be gilding it, Mr Pearce.’
The boat with the party of Frenchmen had stood off, sitting outside the lights of the ship, and were invisible from the deck until John Pearce and his party cast off. A voice called to them, and a single spark was struck from a set of flints to locate them, Pearce ordering his oarsmen to get them close. Once done, the Frenchmen tossed over a thin line, not to tow them in any way, but to ensure that in the pitch darkness they would stay in contact. There was the slightest trace of phosphorescence from the striking oars, but not enough to be seen from more than a few yards away.
Judging by the way the waves were hitting the bow, HMS Faron’s boat was being led out to sea, and at one time the bulk of one of the French warships slid by their rowlocks, clearly being used as a mark by their guides, who then turned in towards the shore. The pace was steady, designed for minimum noise not maximum speed, and with the run of the sea on the quarter the cutter was rocking back and forth until another turn had it lifting and dropping the thwarts.
‘Water’s shelving,’ Costello called quietly from the bow, the truth of that evident as the lead rope went slack and the keel hit soft sand.
Another flint strike came through the gloom and Pearce pointed, before realising that no one could see it. ‘Get ashore and gather by that spark and wait till you have your feet. Mr Harbin, stand off until first light. If we fail at the breach it is to you we will be running for succour.’
Some had to kneel in the sand for several minutes before they felt safe to stand, with Pearce demanding patience from their nervous escorts, but eventually the volunteers were steady enough to be led off the beach onto a path that took them through a forest of pines. That was narrow and ended well away from the town wall, the same battlements that had once withstood the efforts of Richelieu and his Catholic army. They had been a formidable obstacle then, but time and advancements in artillery had made them useless, so the burghers of the time saw no point in spending money on repairs.
‘Où est les sentinelles?’ asked Pearce, the reply sending him towards a windowless hut, from which came the faint glow of a smouldering fire. The next thing that came was snores, and edging close and looking through the gap that covered the place where the walls had collapsed he could just make out three recumbent bodies, one in a chair with his musket across his lap, so obviously the sentry on duty, the other two stretched out in proper sleep on a pair of cots. He crept round to the back, finding the door and establishing with the slightest of creaks that it was not locked on the inside, then he went back to where his party was waiting, near-invisible shapes silhouetted against La Rochelle.
‘Mr Farmiloe, Michael, Martin, there are three fellows in there, all asleep.’ He outlined how they lay to right and left of the door, then added, ‘One each, but render them captured. No killing.’
The gleam of Farmiloe’s dirk also picked up a little of the gaslight from the town, and Pearce would have liked to have seen the boy’s face; was it determined or fearful? It mattered not, as long as he did what was asked. As the trio went to carry out his orders, he thanked the Frenchmen who had brought them this far, and issued them an invitation to go back from whence they had come and join Mr Harbin, pointing out that they would be welcome aboard HMS Faron. For that he was thanked, but they declined. They had to get back to the Place de la Revolution.
The muffled grunts from the hut told him his orders in that quarter were being obeyed, and soon Michael was by his side confirming it. ‘Strip them, then tie them up and I need to know when they are due to be relieved. Perhaps if Mr Farmiloe was to play with his dirk, we might find out.’
When he heard what Farmiloe had done with his weapon, Pearce laughed. There was nothing a man would not tell you if you threatened to remove from him his manhood with an instrument that was less than truly sharp. The three replacements came with the dawn, under the command of a fellow slightly more martial in his attire, probably a sergeant. Neither his rank nor his well-maintained uniform and more military bearing saved him from capture, and he too ended up in the nearby woods, lashed in his smalls to a tree, with a gag in his mouth, able to look at the half-dozen of his men in similar straits.
‘Pick the uniform coat that is closest to your size, and get it on.’
‘Holy Mother of Christ, are they all dwarfs in the place?’ cried Michael, struggling into a coat several sizes too small. Then he picked up the musket; forty-two inches in length, he managed to make it look like a toy, while the whole ensemble, including his hat, made him look like something out of a Raree show that was designed to lampoon the French nation.
‘I’ll not try
the boots, John-boy, for as sure as hell is hot they will cripple me.’
It was only when the light came up strong enough that the party was reminded that one of their number was still dressed in his proper uniform. Lieutenant John Pearce unwrapped from his waist the truce flag he had brought with him, and using his sword, cut off a sapling with which to carry it. He then addressed his party.
‘You are my escort. I have been invited to come ashore and witness the activities of the Revolutionary Tribunal, which I fully intend to do. So, Mr Farmiloe, having taken the sergeant’s coat, I ask you to form up the escort ahead of and behind me, and take me to the proposed place of execution.’
The same grey dawn saw Neame and Sykes, with a small party of sailors, aboard Apollon, with the master blessing the slight onshore breeze drawn in by the heat of the land. Rigging a scrap of canvas was all they could do, but if the breeze held it would serve. The problem was also compounded by that breeze, for once in motion, with so few men aboard, it would be near impossible to take the way off the ship. If forced to abort what was planned, the only option was to seek to steer her into the shallow northern bay and run it aground.
Harbin had rejoined them in the cutter, only to be told to step a mast and head out to sea to act as a guard boat for the possible sight of a French ship from Rochefort. Digby had calculated the time taken to send a horse-borne message to the admiral there, then added the time needed to act upon it – the port was miles upriver, but there would be some kind of picket boat at the mouth of the estuary, which meant that it was very possible their departure, or their course to clear Oléron, could be impeded. In fact, as he walked his deck, just as it was finished being swabbed and flogged dry, he was cursing himself for agreeing to let Pearce and his party go ashore, and wondering, if his worst fears were realised, if he might be forced to abandon them.
A Flag of Truce Page 24
