‘I agree to put it to my officers,’ Moreau replied. ‘After all, anything must be better than a return to Toulon.’
Coming about on such a wind was a risky manoeuvre. It had to be timed perfectly and the sails needed to get steerage way with a gale on their quarter had to be sheeted home and drawing before a wave threatened to broach them to. It was so dangerous that having been informed of the intention, all the French officers were on deck, a willing addition to the crew, prepared to render any assistance required, which had more to do with self-preservation than the prospect of the pretence that would follow if they made the Gironde.
They had accepted the proposal to a man, and when questioned Moreau had told Pearce why. Bordeaux might be a worse place to land than La Rochelle; they had no idea who controlled the town, but as one of the country’s major commercial ports the odds were on men having been sent from Paris. Having had one brush with such a creature there was no appetite to face another, and if they were landed in some spot away from any towns, they would have a chance to make their way, individually or collectively, to a place where the danger of decapitation would be nil.
Digby was on one side of the quarterdeck, Pearce on the other, both with arms hooked through the rigging to stay upright. The topmen were ranged along the upper yards, soaked to the skin, their bare feet on the slippery foot ropes, bent over the timber, ready to release the ties on the mainsail, which would need to be quickly reefed if it was not to blow out of its bolt holes. Others were forward on the falls that controlled the jib, which would have to be got up fast to force round the ship’s head.
Neame was on the wheel with three others, peering forward into the gloomy, spume-filled daylight, watching the waves as they rolled towards the ship, trying to time his turn away from the biggest, that measured by the lift of the bows to a point where he could not see anything but scud soaked planking. There was no guarantee that a big wave would not be followed by another, just the odds that the next roller would be diminished in size by its predecessor.
He stepped back from the wheel, to be replaced by Michael O’Hagan, and taking hold of a man rope with one hand, he raised his speaking trumpet to his mouth. The bows reared up until he was pressed back hard into the bulkhead and he waited till the ship hit the crest before shouting. The task of getting round had to be completed in the following trough, for if a big wave hit them beam on with no sail set they would roll sideways and over, with buoyancy the only hope of survival. His orders were yelled out as the wave came amidships, so that HMS Faron was perched atop the crest, like a toy on a fire mantle.
The wheel swung and a rudder that was practically clear of water moved easily, then bit hard as the ship began to drop into the trough, beginning to turn the bowsprit. Neame yelled again as they drove down towards the base, and up went the jib, what wind hit that in the vale of water acting on it to turn the sloop’s bows. They were three quarters round and lifting on the next wave when Neame ordered the mainsail dropped, and as they rose to the next crest it was sheeted home, the ship driven by the strength of the gale that hit them to stay on that crest for what seemed an age as HMS Faron took off like a greyhound. There was joy on the deck, but in the minds of those who knew, it was tempered by the thought that what happened next depended on Neame’s navigational skills. If they were out of the position he supposed, and set a course based on wrong assumptions, they would be driven ashore by this very sea and probably drown.
‘Thank God for the lighthouse,’ said Digby, as the glim from the burning wood showed once more on the spinning bowl. ‘Mind, we will have to shave the point damn close to have any chance of coming round into shelter. Time to rouse out Mr Neame.’
Pearce went to get the exhausted master, and it took a lot of shaking to wake him from a deep slumber, but he was on deck before he was truly needed, taking the con and steering the ship to shave the point, which had deep water to within a quarter mile of the shore. The tricolour was already aloft, so that those on watch in the estuary would see a French vessel making for a home port, and it was no more than two hours before Neame could put up his helm and adjust his sail plan to take them into the shelter of the landmass, the lighthouse now well astern.
The wind was still strong; apart from the point itself, the land was too low-lying to impede it much, but without that running sea they could manoeuvre easily and within another hour, as darkness fell, they had dropped anchor out in the Baie de Verdon, choosing to do so well away from the fort at the western end. Digby set an anchor watch, with Farmiloe in command, who had strict orders to keep a sharp eye out for anyone coming out from the shore, and sent everyone else to get some well-earned rest. It was Pearce who made sure his Pelicans were armed with pistols and in a position to keep an eye on the French officers.
A boat came out from the shore at dawn, to be greeted by Moreau acting as captain, Jacquelin as his mate to assuage his pride, and the rest, Garnier and Forcet included, in the guise of ordinary seamen. Everyone else, apart from those set to kill anyone who betrayed them, stayed on the opposite side of the deck, ostensibly carrying out repairs. The officer from the fort seemed ready to accept the explanation offered; that the ship was carrying despatches for Brest, and would get back to sea as soon as the weather moderated, adding, in a nice touch, that there were certain deficiencies in stores which needed to be made up, if the fort and the traders, most especially the local wine growers, would not mind accepting the English gold they had captured from a merchant vessel in the Mediterranean.
Thus, in a cabin so crowded that backs were pressed to the bulkheads, French and British officers, midshipmen and the master, had an excellent dinner, with fresh fish, newly plucked chickens, what an Englishman would have called a baron of beef, all washed down with outstanding Medoc clarets from further down the coast, of the kind and quality that, in normal times, only the rich could afford. That they got them for so little was evidence of the lack of rich men left in France, plus the fact that the better claret market, Britain and Ireland, was now, without smuggling, barred to the growers.
‘It falls to me,’ said Gerard Moreau, in his toast, which Pearce translated, ‘to thank you for saving our lives. It also falls to me to tell you that we are true Frenchman and sailors and warriors, and though it would give us no joy, should we meet in future, we will do our very best to take whichever vessel you are on, and should it be unfortunately necessary, to kill you in the process.’
Pearce tempered it slightly, because he knew that, for the likes of Moreau, pride had been wounded. Digby then toasted the sea and all who sailed on her, which was a sentiment with which they could all agree.
It took six days for the wind to abate sufficiently to make sail, and that could not be achieved until they had taken the French officers to a point between the fishing villages of Talmont and Mortagne of the northern Gironde shore, and said farewell.
‘Who knows what will become of us, monsieur,’ said Moreau. ‘We will perhaps pretend to be ordinary sailors, we will certainly stay out of any town that seems to be in the hands of a Rafin, and we will make our way back to our homes and wait to see what transpires.’
‘Just keep your head, my friend,’ said Pearce.
Moreau nodded and grinned, as Pearce had the cutter pushed off the beach and out into deep water. He did not look back as they rowed back to HMS Faron; it was those rowing who saw that the Frenchmen lined the beach and stayed there, ever smaller figures, until the cutter was out of sight.
It took a week to beat all the way to the Straits and with the favourable in-going current there was no need to stop at the Rock. Once through, that same wind, which had made hard their passage south, sped them towards Toulon, and it was with mixed feeling that Pearce, standing in the bows, saw once more the tip of Mont Faron emerge from the clouds which covered its summit. As soon as they came into view, HMS Victory made their number and signalled for the captain to come aboard. Pearce had permission to also take a boat, and after dropping off Lutyens at the hospital, h
e went aboard HMS Britannia, to seek the date for the day he would see Ralph Barclay at his court martial.
No vessel could approach the anchorage of Toulon without engendering a degree of curiosity, and HMS Faron was no exception. At first, in the distance, with just her topgallants showing, she had raised speculations regarding reinforcements, but it was soon realised as her topsails came into view that she was too small to offer anyone ashore that comfort. Closer and hull up, she was recognised for what and who she was; no ship was quite like another, and sailors took pride in recognition. By the time she gained the Grand Rade, there was scarce an English-speaking soul ashore or afloat who did not know her identity.
Even Ralph Barclay, on duty at Fort Mulgrave, knew of her return, and while the information was not received with anything passing for delight, he knew in his heart that matters had been taken care of which left him free from any threat from John Pearce. Toby Burns, off duty, sat in a dark and empty midshipman’s berth, shuddered when he heard the news being passed by shouts through the lower deck. The thought of John Pearce back in Toulon, when he was bound to hear of the evidence given at the court martial, did nothing to ease his fear that one day the man would get him alone and exact vengeance. He wanted to go to Ralph Barclay and ask to be sent home – the captain ignored him, and his aunt now barely exchanged a civil word – but shied away from the consequences; what would the people who had so praised him at home say if their boy hero came home to skulk in the country?
The news came to Emily Barclay through Shenton, sent by Mr Glaister, who in obedience to her husband’s orders kept lookouts at the masthead of HMS Brilliant, even though she was tied up to the quay. Shenton had taken the occasion to once more glower at her, then at Cornelius Gherson, sat yet again on the casement lockers with the ship’s logs and ledgers. Emily wondered at the thickness of the man’s skin, given she felt she had made it plain that his constant occupancy of her husband’s cabin, when he was absent, was unwelcome.
‘I daresay you will be happy to see so many of your husband’s crew once more, Mrs Barclay,’ said Gherson.
Was that a smirk on his face? Emily was unsure, for he seemed to have an almost permanent sneer on the rare occasions when he actually spoke, instead of sneaking surreptitious looks at her from under those long, blond eyelashes, which clearly he suspected she could not see. And was there a double meaning in those words?
‘Mr Gherson—’
His interruption was swift, and delivered with what he thought was a winning smile. ‘Could I not persuade you, Mrs Barclay, to call me Cornelius?’
The sharp reply wiped away the smile. ‘No, Mr Gherson, you cannot! You are my husband’s clerk and it would be unfitting to be so familiar given our respective positions. And might I add that I find your continual presence in this part of the ship, which is supposed to be the preserve of the ship’s captain, equally inappropriate.’
‘My dear Mrs Barclay—’
Emily cut across him, unfazed by his expression of hurt. ‘You do not dare ask for the use of it when he is aboard, do you?’
The reply that Cornelius Gherson wanted to give was not one that would be possible. An open declaration of his attraction would be fatal, though he was forced to admit that, even after many hours spent in this very cabin, he had not advanced one iota in his aim of seduction. Emily Barclay was a hard nut to crack, but such was his assurance in his own capabilities that he took her rebuffs as proof that the notion of dalliance was both acknowledged and discomforting. Yet he could not resist an attempt to puncture her conceit, just to let her know, in no uncertain terms, that if her husband refused to accept the world as it was, he did.
‘I wonder what John Pearce will make of the outcome of your husband’s court martial?’
The implied meaning was made plain by the arch look Gherson used to accompany the words, for a man would have to be blind, deaf and dumb not to realise how strained the atmosphere was between Captain Barclay and his wife, the reason for that strain no secret either.
‘Mr Gherson, please take your ledgers and return to that place which you have been allotted in which to work.’
‘If I have offended you, Mrs Barclay—’ he protested.
‘I would not wish to have to ask my husband to issue the same request.’
Gherson did not move immediately, instead he was staring at her with what looked like increasing comprehension. Then the look changed to a pout of displeasure, a petulant expression which was near-feminine. Emily thought it was because he was being chucked out of the cabin, but she was wrong. Gherson was pouting because of a sudden notion: could it be that Emily Barclay had not taken John Pearce’s side against her own husband through a desire to maintain the truth; could it be there was another even more telling reason? The thought made him so angry he had to turn away, and he used the excuse of gathering up his books to keep his face and expression hidden.
‘I am sorry to have offended you, madam.’ It was said in such a way as to make Emily feel a pang of guilt. ‘I assure you I will not trouble you again.’ As he left, Cornelius Gherson was thinking that was all she was ever going to get from him from now on; more trouble than she could ever hope to cope with.
‘Shenton,’ she called, looking at him hard and wiping a half-smirk off his face. Clearly, given his love of eavesdropping, he had heard the recent exchange. ‘Request a boat from Mr Glaister. I wish to see Mr Lutyens now that he is returned.’
The boat was ready quickly, and she was handed down to sit in the thwarts. The sailor in charge did not bat an eyelid as she said, as soon as they were out of earshot of HMS Brilliant, ‘Take me to HMS Faron.’
‘Aye, aye, mam.’
‘I demand to see the admiral,’ John Pearce growled, trying to lean over the desk and by his height and weight threaten Hotham’s secretary.
‘You cannot.’
‘I must. I demand also an explanation.’
The secretary, knowing that he had marines within earshot, was not to be cowed. ‘You can demand away, sir. The day a lieutenant can demand anything of a Vice Admiral is not yet come. If you wish to see him put it in writing, and wait.’
Pearce wanted to take out his sword and cleave the man in two, but he knew it would achieve nothing. He had been lied to and humbugged, and what was worse he did not know what had happened, so he forced himself into a more calm mode of address.
‘It makes no odds what the verdict of the court was. It was a travesty and based on a lie. I shall demand that Captain Barclay face trial again.’
The smirk that he got from the secretary made his blood boil even more. ‘I have heard you are much taken up with spouting the law, Lieutenant Pearce, so it surprises me to find you so ignorant. Do you not know there is such a thing as double jeopardy?’
‘What?’
‘Precisely,’ the secretary hissed. ‘A man tried and acquitted cannot be tried again for the same offence. Captain Barclay was reprimanded but that is all, and there is nothing you, or anyone else, can do about it.’
‘I shall go and see Lord Hood!’
‘Do so,’ was the reply, and it was given in the confidence that he would be wasting his time there too.
‘I had his word, Heinrich. That swine Hotham told me to my face that there could be no trial without my presence and that of Michael, Charlie and Rufus. His secretary was taking notes and he was writing the words down as they were spoken.’
‘And?’
‘I asked to see those, and I knew when he was so willing to show me that I was about to be humbugged. There was no record of that part of the conversation, so I asked for the depositions I and the others made. The sod looked as me as though I had just come out of the gates of Bedlam.’
The words rang in his ears yet, ‘What depositions?’
‘Am I disturbing anything?’
Both men turned to the doorway to see Emily Barclay standing there. Pearce had a flash of anger, quite prepared to put the blame for what had happened on her shoulders; after all she was
married to the brute who had escaped justice. Yet her words totally deflated that sentiment.
‘Lieutenant Pearce, I was told that you might be here. It is you I have come to see.’
‘Why, madam?’
‘To apologise for my husband.’
‘Emily,’ said Lutyens quickly, with a look that was telling her to be guarded.
‘I know it could be seen as a betrayal, but I attended the court martial, even though he did not want me there, and when I did I could see why. Everyone who gave witness did so with a pack of lies. My nephew, the new clerk Gherson…’
‘Gherson!’ Pearce snapped. ‘Clerk?’
‘…Coyle, the master at arms, did not so much lie as protect himself, but Kemp was vicious.’
‘Why are you doing this, my dear?’ Lutyens asked softly.
‘From shame, Heinrich. My husband not only committed perjury, he induced others to do so on his behalf and with the assistance of authority got out of the way those who could attest he was telling untruths. And in the process he has lied to me more than once, and on other occasions withheld things he should have shared. I wish you, Lieutenant Pearce, to know that I was not party to this deception.’
‘I never thought you were,’ Pearce said, unsure if that was the truth. They looked at each other for several seconds, her eyes moist with sorrow at the revelations she had made, his still hard from the same, yet there was admiration for her beauty, as well as sympathy for what it must have taken to come here and confess what she knew. Then he had an idea.
‘You said, madam, that Captain Barclay perjured himself.’
‘He was not alone in that, sir, they all did.’
‘Then the case is altered. A man cannot, under the law of double jeopardy, be tried for the same offence twice. But perjury, I happen to know, is a separate offence, and a far more damning one. If I have my way, I will have your husband and his witnesses tried for that offence and locked up in a King’s Bench prison or transported to Van Deiman’s land for the rest of their lives.’
A Flag of Truce Page 29
