‘Stay absolutely still, monsieur.’ Pearce stepped forward and, pistol out once more, put it to Rafin’s head, looking from the side into a face creased with shock. ‘Tell your guards by the guillotine to release the prisoners at once.’
Rafin’s mouth was moving but no sound emerged for several seconds; when it did come he croaked, ‘You will die for this.’
‘You will die too, rest assured. Now do as I ask, or are you prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice for the Revolution?’
‘You hear that, Mr Sykes?’ asked Neame.
‘I did. A shot, faint but as clear as day.’
‘Then I say it is time to let go the anchors.’
The orders were passed below, and men with mallets attacked the bitts holding the anchor cables. The stern anchor had the strain on a rising tide and as it released it started to run out through the hawse hole at such speed that those on deck could see smoke rising from the friction burn. The bower anchor went more slowly, in the process aiding Neame on the wheel to swing the bows until they were facing right towards the twin towers of La Rochelle. Creaking, Apollon began to drift and a few more commands had the maincourse dropped, though it had no effect until those who had let it fall could get to the deck and sheet home on both sides. That done they were ordered to the entry port to take the first of the boats back to HMS Faron.
‘Do you think’, said Lutyens, on the deck of that ship, ‘that is the signal Pearce intended?’
‘God only knows, Mr Lutyens, but by damn I hope so.’
Pearce, even on such a short acquaintance, had surmised Rafin was a bully and a coward, and so it proved to be. The pistol at his temple reduced him to jelly and he could hardly find the breath to issue orders to the other National Guardsmen to lay down their weapons and release the prisoners.
‘Those weapons, Mr Farmiloe,’ said Pearce, ‘and fetch our charges up here.’
‘With me, Dommet,’ the boy said and the two youngest members of the party went into a crowd which parted before them to secure the muskets, carrying them back to the podium in the wake of the French officers. Moreau was not grinning, he was grim, as he asked how they were going to get from this crowded square to the port and a boat.
Pearce pushed the pistol slightly, moving Rafin’s head. ‘Matters are in hand, but I would hazard that it might be a bad idea to leave these military officers to lead any resistance or pursuit.’
Moreau picked up one of the weapons that Farmiloe had dropped at his feet and, walking up to General Westermann, he first threatened to bayonet him. That the man showed no fear was admirable; if he was going to die he was prepared to do so while setting an example. Moreau reversed the weapon and hit him hard on the temple, so that he collapsed like a sack of flour. With that as an example, the others arrested took on the remainder of the tribunal members, until all were comatose and bleeding, lying on the stone, with Pascal Garnier having to restrain some of the younger men, who would have beaten their victims to death.
‘And now, monsieur?’ asked Moreau.
‘Watch, and follow me.’ Pearce jabbed Rafin again. ‘Look at the ground and keep your eyes there.’
Pistol at Rafin’s head, Pearce moved down the steps, to a crowd that seemed too dense to negotiate. But part it did, as the sailors from the four French warships suddenly moved – they had taken up positions that morning, as a collective notion to protest at the treatment of their innocent leaders – and created a path through which Pearce, Moreau and the rest could proceed, closing behind them to foil anyone trying to interfere, some wishing their officers bon chance from behind hats that hid their faces. Farmiloe brought up the rear, walking backwards, musket at the ready, as the first of the cannon spoke from the sea wall and the towers of St Nicolas and La Chaine.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Few admirals would have sent a 74-gun ship into the arc of fire presented by the cannons of La Rochelle, but if they had decided the risk to be worthwhile, the vessels would have taken on the defences on the sea wall with their own blazing broadsides. No such option existed for Apollon and if the French gunners knew they were firing at one of their own ships it made no difference to their intent. Blasting away, from a secure platform and at short range, the balls tore great chunks out of the warship, sending splinters flying all over the upper deck when they hit the bulwarks. Neame and Sykes ducked continually and they could hear the wounding blows being taken under their feet, as the gunports they had opened earlier, in a bid to fool the defenders into thinking the ship armed, were blown in. Worse, other shot was aimed at the waterline, with the aim of sinking her, which, given she was in the main deep water channel leading to the port, showed a want of brain on the part of whoever was in command.
‘If she takes in a load of water, Mr Neame, she will settle before we get to the towers.’
The old ship’s master nodded to Sykes, trying to calculate the point at which he could abandon ship, when it was clear the seventy-four was going to end up where he wanted it, blocking the harbour entrance, but it was becoming obvious that time was not a luxury the gunners on the sea wall were about to allow him. So far the quarterdeck, where he and Sykes stood, had been spared, but that could not last. The open entry port was on the maindeck below their feet, on the side of the ship pointing away from those guns.
‘Best abandon now, Mr Neame,’ added Sykes. ‘No sense in getting cut in half for what we can’t achieve.’
Neame nodded and began to lash off one side of the wheel, Sykes doing the other. They were halfway to the companionway, crouching and running, just as a ball screamed across the deck and hit the wheel square on the middle of the spokes, reducing it to matchwood, and even though they continued to run it was with the knowledge that they had just had a very lucky escape. Once on the maindeck they were far from safe; the La Rochelle defences boasted 42-pounder cannon, and at the short range at which they were firing, that was a ball that could come right through the several feet of timber that made up the Apollon’s scantlings.
One ball, heated shot, flaming red, flew through a gunport ahead of them and smashed into the seaward side of the ship, embedding itself and beginning to smoulder the surrounding wood. On the deck of HMS Faron, Digby was again producing a litany of silent curses; he found being a spectator harder than the notion of being in action, and he was praying that his master and bosun would have the sense to get off in time. The relief when he saw the jolly boat emerge from behind the bulk of the seventy-four was palpable, though short-lived, as the lookout from the masthead yelled down to him.
‘Mr Harbin approaching hell for the leather in the cutter, Capt’n, and he is flying a signal at the head of his mast.’
Digby was at the shrouds and climbing before the sentence was finished; this was no time for second-hand information, he had to see for himself. Given the speed with which Harbin was heading to rendezvous, he had his signal in view from the mainmast cap and it was one of the messages which required no signal book to decipher.
‘Enemy in sight,’ he shouted down to the deck, then looked towards the two men straining on the oars of the jolly boat, trying to calculate how long they would take to join, before adding, ‘Prepare to weigh.’
Not so long before this day Lieutenant Henry Digby had been a skylarking midshipman, so sliding down a backstay to the deck, though it might not fit with the dignity of a ship’s captain, was at least speedy enough to get him onto his quarterdeck in a flash. He had a glass on the jolly boat again, which had become a target for musket fire at extreme range. Apollon, now within the arc of the cannon on the towers of St Nicolas and La Chaine, was taking fire on the bows, which seemed to make the vessel jerk to a halt as they struck, only for it to resume its drift between salvos. Thick smoke came from below, pouring out of the gunports, this while the whole of her upper works were being blasted with shot that hardly needed any aim to strike home. The mainmast was struck and lurched to one side, held momentarily by the rigging, until, in slow motion, it went by the board.
&
nbsp; Switching his glass, Digby looked through the gap on those towers, hoping to see John Pearce emerge with his party. If they came with the condemned Frenchman that was good, but without would do.
The threat to kill Rafin would have been useless if the man had shown an ounce of courage. At least he did not plead, no doubt because he knew it to be useless, as he was hurried down to the quay, passing by very much the same folk who had watched Pearce and his men march by earlier. This time, when they looked, it was with jaw-dropping wonder, as the party of seeming National Guards and one British officer, with that flag of truce still held over his head, hurried by, a sight which distracted them from the sight, as they looked out to sea, of a capital warship drifting in, bits of timber flying off as it was pounded, its prow aimed straight for them. That was a sight for the rescue party as well, and one that stopped Gerard Moreau in his tracks as, with a pained expression, he recognised his own ship being torn to bits.
‘Captain Moreau,’ Pearce shouted, grabbing his arm, ‘we must keep moving. Mr Farmiloe, we are in need of a boat that we can row. You choose.’
There was a moment, when, rushing up the side of the quay, they approached the decks of the pair of privateers Pearce had seen preparing for sea the day before, when it might have all gone wrong. Many of the crew, having seen them coming a long way off, looked to a weapon to interdict them as they passed, but the screeching orders of whoever commanded rang out telling them to concentrate on casting off and getting out of the harbour before the entrance was blocked. By the time Pearce and his prisoner stumbled by, the cables had been slipped from the bollards, and men were poling the ships away from the stone quay, this while others pushed sweeps out of the low gunports to act as oars.
‘Ahead, sir,’ Farmiloe shouted, ‘the size of a decent cutter.’
The boy was pointing towards a large clinker-built fishing boat festooned with fenders, in which a fellow, seemingly oblivious to what else was happening in the place, was untangling his nets. His boat had a single mast and boom, as well as half a dozen rowlocks a side, indicating it was reasonably deep-water fishing smack. With so many men it would be crowded, but it would do, so Pearce gestured to Costello and Martin to get forward and see to the fisherman, who was roughly bundled out of the way as first Farmiloe, then the rest of the party, clambered down into his boat. The protests he began to make died in his throat as a musket was levelled at him.
Pearce could not believe they had got this far without having to fight, and it was only when he looked back he realised why. A solid phalanx of French sailors, twenty deep, was walking slowly along the main quay, blocking any attempt by Rafin’s supporters to get by them.
‘Now, monsieur, you will get down into the boat, and you will do so in the knowledge that I still have my pistol trained on you.’
That was when Pearce caught sight of the tortured face of Captain Jacquelin, clearly in an agony of indecision. He was the only one Pearce thought he had to worry about, the only one who might see his duty as an attempt to get Rafin free, and by doing so save himself from the guillotine. He had only moments, the time needed for him and Moreau’s men to get the oars out and rigged for use.
‘Captain Jacquelin, if you wish to stay out of the boat you are free to do so. Perhaps you have so much affection for your home soil that you would risk your neck to stay here.’ The man looked at him with a hard glare, until Pearce added, ‘But do not attempt anything, because if you do, not only will this bastard die but so will you. Make up your mind, go or stay.’
Jacquelin responded by sitting down amidships, between two of his own fellows who had got their oars in place.
‘Slowly, Rafin. Michael, when he’s down get him in the bow and standing.’
The representative on mission was handed down into the boat and so placed, Pearce joined him, spreading his own feet wide and taking his collar to keep him upright.
‘Cochon,’ Pearce said in his ear, a remark the man resented by the way he stiffened; he was not used to being called a pig. ‘We have to get out between St Nicolas and La Chaine, and there are men on the ramparts who will be tempted to shoot down on us. One musket ball fired and you die, so clear your throat and get ready to call out.’
‘You will kill me anyway,’ Rafin replied, for the first time showing some spunk, this as Dysart and Costello pushed off and the men on the oars began to row with more confusion than rhythm.
‘No, we are not like you. Let us say we are like the majority of your countrymen. Do as I as say and we will let you live, and perhaps you will learn to grant the same gift to others.’
HMS Faron had sailed over her anchor, plucking it out of the soft sand that lined the sea floor as sweet as kiss my hand, and once Neame and Sykes were aboard, no more than a few minutes after, Digby gave the orders that would bring her round to close with Harbin, sailing close to the wind on the larboard tack.
‘Aloft there, a sharp eye out to sea for whatever it is that has got Mr Harbin so agitated.’
‘Is my presence on the deck permitted, sir?’ Digby just nodded to Lutyens, and kept his telescope trained on the distant horizon, the face behind it definitely worried. ‘Am I allowed to ask about Pearce and his men?’
‘You are, Mr Lutyens, as long as you do not look for an answer. The safety of the ship comes first. If what is out there has to be avoided at all costs then Mr Pearce will just have to take his chances.’
Lutyens did not respond with an opinion, and in truth he had no idea if the men who had gone ashore had achieved what they set out to do or failed, but it was silent speculation that would have troubled the captain if said out loud; what would happen to them if they were taken by a group of people quite prepared to slaughter their own naval officers on a set of trumped up charges? There could only be one answer.
‘He appears to have a streak of luck in such situations, Captain Digby,’ Lutyens said, more to reassure himself than the man he was addressing. ‘Let us hope it holds.’
‘Topgallants on the horizon, Capt’n.’
‘Excuse me, Mr Lutyens, I need to see this for myself.’
Digby went to the shrouds again and began to climb, Lutyens walked to the taffrail, passing Mr Neame on the way, to look back at the pillar of smoke rising from the burning Apollon. The master was close enough to exchange words with him, and so set in his course that he could join him in looking back to the diminishing outline of La Rochelle.
‘If’n Mr Pearce ain’t out of that harbour in a few minutes, he ain’t never ever goin’ to get out.’
Looking at the older man, and seeing that his attention had returned to a close examination of the sky and the cloud formations out to sea, he asked what they portended.
‘See how the high clouds is breaking up, Mr Lutyens, into those odd oblong shapes?’
‘I do.’
‘Lenticular we calls it, and that is the forewarning of foul weather to come. The high winds are from the south-west, so that will be what we face, common at this time of year.’
‘When?’
‘Twelve hours, maybe half a dozen more if we are lucky, but in these waters, with that sky, given we can’t seek shelter, we should be running for deep water as fast as we can. At the very least we need to get well clear of Oléron, which is not going to be gifted us if we have to fight another ship.’
‘There must be an alternative.’
‘There is. Weather the Ile de Ré, which is that long sandbar to our north, then set a course to run with the wind and hope to get so far out into blue water that, even if it lasts a week, we can weather Ushant. Trouble is, it seems there’s folk out there who want to stop us doin’ that.’
‘Can we avoid a fight?’
‘Mr Lutyens, they have the wind. The choice of fighting does not lie with us, it lies with them, and if they do choose to engage and we carry anything away aloft, even if we escape we will be in real danger. With that weather and where it is comin’ from, and the strength of gale it might be, it could be us that don’t get out of
here.’
Obviously, Lutyens thought, the chances for John Pearce and his party had just plummeted.
Having pulled out towards the middle of the harbour, the men in the fishing boat were presented with the sight of Apollon perilously close to plugging their route of escape. Farmiloe started to chant, in order to get the oars to synchronise, and this had some effect, speeding up the boat as the oars bit the water more evenly, though they were pretty low in the water with so many souls aboard, and not in a vessel designed for speed, so they would never reach a satisfactory pace.
‘Them sloops is beginning to make way,’ Martin Dent said. He was in the thwarts, holding the tiller, but looking backwards, Farmiloe still chanting beside him. ‘Once we is out in deep water, with them sweeps out, they’s like to overhaul us.’
Silence fell as everyone aboard who could understand absorbed the information, because the time must come where the threat of a ball through Rafin’s head might not work. Indeed, they were coming abreast of that now, as they approached the towers that guarded the entrance, with musketeers leaning over both ramparts, their weapons trained. Pearce pressed his pistol hard against Rafin’s head and hissed, ‘Time to sing, cochon.’ The shout was as loud as that he used to harangue the crowd earlier, and it was an order not to shoot on pain of certain death. Pearce was less concerned with that than the rapidly closing gap in front of him. Apollon, now well alight along the length of her larboard side, was within a few dozen yards of the towers, still being hit repeatedly by gunfire, and her head was slightly down, showing him more of the deck than she should; if she came on and jammed her bulk into the gap there would be no room to escape.
The ship was drifting so slowly that, when she ran aground, it was hard to spot – a slight sway forward of the upper foremast, a dip of the smashed stump of the bowsprit – but softly aground she was, with room for Pearce and his men to row through, into the billowing pall of smoke that was being driven inland on the breeze.
A Flag of Truce Page 26
