A Sea of Troubles

by David Donachie

  ‘So,’ Pearce sighed, which indicated his level of optimism, ‘you are saying that it must be faced here and we must find some way of gaining resolution.’

  ‘I am saying you must let the crew aid us. At least with numbers we have a chance.’

  That led to a long silence, but Pearce responded finally. ‘It might up to a point, Michael, but only up to a point.’

  ‘Frenchie coming,’ Michael said quietly.

  ‘Monsieur,’ the count demanded. ‘When will we depart for London?’

  The thud of a boat coming alongside and with no shortage of noise distracted both Pearce and the count. Bellam, the ship’s cook, began slinging onto the deck a case of wine, various sacks of fresh victuals, one of which, by its shape and being wrapped in muslin, looked to be a substantial rib of beef that Pearce had asked him to seek out for his last meal aboard, which he intended should be something of a celebration and, to please his guests, one held at a more shore-common hour. The three o’clock naval dining hour they had found as hard to accept as the quality of what they were given to eat.

  ‘We cannot leave today, monsieur, it is too late in the day. Perhaps on the morrow.’ The disappointment, if not downright disapproval, was obvious. ‘But, for tonight, I promise you a capital dinner, and since you have caught one fish and that will not feed three, I would admonish you to ply your rod again and get us another for it would make a fine opening course.’

  ‘What was all that about?’ Bellam asked as he hauled himself aboard.

  ‘Christ knows, mate,’ came the reply from Brad Kempshall, the ship’s carpenter, dark-haired twin to the blond gunner Sam. ‘Lessen you know the lingo you can’t tell. But that apart, I would take it as a kindness if, when you was bringing a boat alongside, you showed a bit more care.’

  The reply was loud and on such a small deck was taken in by all. ‘An’ there’s me seeking to straighten out the wood you left warped and you plying the trade of Christ’s old father hisself. Some folks never give thanks.’

  Pearce found himself looking along a deck of laughing tars; he was not laughing, he was trying to work out how to play his hand, which, despite the promise of support, did not seem an exceptionally good one, yet in being barracked by Michael a germ of a solution began to present itself.

  CHAPTER SIX

  ‘Light’s fading,’ wheezed Cole, the man first set to watch HMS Larcher and newly returned. ‘Added, there’s no sign of a boat castin’ off. Looks to me as if they was setting out a table on the deck and there’s smoke coming from the galley chimney.’

  ‘Damn the sod.’

  ‘We ain’t got now’t to keep us goin’, either, and I’m sharp set.’

  ‘For the love of Christ,’ Jahleel spat, ‘stop thinkin’ on your belly.’

  ‘If’n you can stop it a’rumblin’, Jahleel, I’ll stop moanin’ for sure.’ He jerked a thumb to where the hobbled mounts were grazing. ‘The only things getting fed are the horses an’ that’s what we will be on, plain grass.’

  ‘Never mind the rumbling,’ Franklin interjected, ‘somebody has to go back and make sure Pearce stays aboard.’

  ‘Ain’t goin’ to come off in the dark, brother,’ Jahleel said, for once without any trace of rancour, looking skyward at what was rapidly turning from light blue to a deeper hue. ‘Even if it is a starry night, it is not a road to be travelling by moonlight.’

  ‘A tankard of ale might ease things,’ Cole said.

  ‘Now there’s a good notion,’ Franklin responded with a sneer. ‘The only place to get that is in the hard tavern and that is full of the locals. Jahleel’s planning to do Pearce in and you want to sit blathering to them and let them see our faces close up.’

  ‘All I is sayin’ is I don’t fancy sitting out all night with not a drink to pass my lips nor a bite of food to eat.’

  Jahleel Tolland laughed, a low chuckle really. ‘Should get you in the mood to take it out on Pearce of a mornin’, I’d say.’

  ‘Will do an’ all,’ Cole snarled, ‘that is, if you stand back long enough to give a body a chance.’

  ‘Cephas,’ Jahleel said to another of the gang, as he pulled out and peered at his Hunter. ‘Go keep watch for a bit; I’ll send someone to take over after a while.’

  ‘Can we light a fire, at least, Jahleel?’

  ‘It’s a warm night and we are sound here, unless you reckon this here forest be full of demons.’

  ‘Why’d you say that?’ Cole wailed.

  ‘I know you’re a’feard of them, that’s why,’ Jahleel roared, ‘an’ if they’s ever comin’ for you Cole, this night is as good as any. Bless me, did I see yonder tree move a bit closer?’

  A chorus of ghoulish wails from all of the gang followed that, which had Cole covering his ears; he was man who believed very strongly in evil spirits. But Cole got his way; enough dry kindling was found to get a blaze going, bits of broken-off and seasoned branches, of which the forest was well supplied, only dampened on the bark by the recent rain, turning that into a warming fire that each man was reluctant to leave when it came to their turn to take over the watch on the armed cutter.

  A small table had been set up on the tiny quarterdeck, with lanterns rigged above to provide light when the last of the sun disappeared, a more comfortable way to dine than they had enjoyed at sea, sitting on the casement lockers in the ship’s cramped cabin, yet it was far from a relaxed occasion despite the improved quality of the food. Pearce gnawed on what he had planned while the Count de Puisaye was once more in the kind of expansive and confident mood regarding the future of his country, claims that grated on his host’s nerves, given it was so divorced from reality.

  The citizen armies that had defeated the likes of the Duke of Brunswick and forced the coalition raised against the revolution to retreat, and had, from what he knew, made life a misery for the British Army’s action in Flanders, would be swept aside by the ragtag peasants of the Vendée, for they had their faith as well as God on their side. A great host would be gathered on the march to Paris as people rose up in their thousands to sweep aside the apostates who had so ruined proud France. For John Pearce the only way to avoid his direct gaze, demanding agreement to these preposterous claims, was to hide behind the rim of his tankard and pretend to drink deeply.

  Amélie was silent throughout and Pearce wondered if it was because of her fellow countryman’s hyperbole of if she had an inkling of what was going to happen on the morrow, which seemed to add a deepness and unhappiness to the looks she threw in his direction, not dissimilar to those mention by Michael O’Hagan. If he had seen them, Pearce had worked hard to avoid them, yet he knew they were present. He had been deliberately indifferent to her over the preceding days for the very good reason that any show of sympathy could have untoward consequences, not that his attempts to get to sleep were unsullied by temptation; he could hear her movements, and worse for slumber he could remember the pleasure of their previous couplings.

  At least the food was good: fresh trout – for Puisaye, with much assistance, had been successful twice more; the beef was pink and the vegetables were fresh from a cook who, at anchor on a calm river and with no discernible wind, reckoned there was scant reason to boil the meat and instead oversaw it being properly roasted; likewise the carrots and greens were crisp rather than soft, the potatoes allowed to roast in the juices alongside the beef. Proud of his efforts, the fellow hovered until he was complimented for his efforts.

  ‘It is so good, Mr Bellam, it could match any meal I had in Paris.’

  As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Pearce was aware that if he had drunk little, it was enough to loosen his guard; a mention of the French capital was not a good idea in the present company, the truth of that immediately apparent when the count asked for a translation. Much as he tried to weave a tale round it, the name of the city still hung in the air, causing Amélie to respond.

  ‘Do we not have many fond memories, Jean, of our time together in Paris?’

  This bei
ng almost the first time she had spoken without she was responding to a question from Puisaye, Pearce found he needed his tankard again, this time to avoid her eyes, which had about them a pleading look. That could not stay at his lips for ever and when it was downed he had to reply.

  ‘That is in the past, Amélie.’

  ‘And what is to be my future?’

  Pearce was not only cursing the question but the fact that it had been posed in the presence of Puisaye – the few exchanges he had allowed outside normal conversation had been done out of earshot of the only other French speaker aboard; not now, and it was as plain by his expression that the count was just as curious as Amélie, which was damned annoying.

  ‘You are a charge upon my conscience.’

  ‘What a strange expression, Jean.’

  It is, he thought, but I am not going to say I will take care of you, for that is an expression too loaded to employ.

  ‘I cannot give you what you lost, but …’ The tankard came up again to be drained, for he did not know how to conclude the sentence.

  It was telling the way her hand went to her cheek, as if she was underlining that her beauty, with which he had been so struck on first meeting her, was no longer as it had once been; Amélie had suffered in her flight from a life of luxury to a Vendée swamp, but it was more than that, for she had also aged. So had he, but time had been unkind to a woman who was already many years older when they had first met, her worldly knowledge being, to an inexperienced youth, a great part of her attraction.

  ‘No one can give me back what is gone.’

  ‘Your husband—’

  The interjection was sharp. ‘I was not referring to Armand.’

  ‘He died in a noble cause,’ said the count in his customary sententious way.

  ‘Odd,’ Amélie replied, a sour note in her voice, ‘that all causes are termed noble, monsieur. I have heard Jacobins use the same expression and I am sure it is one used by that ogre Robespierre and his Committee of Public Safety.’

  ‘You cannot doubt that the cause we represent is anything other than just!’

  Amélie dropped her head and spoke the single word, ‘Non.’ It implied the exact opposite, inferred that such sentiments were for fools, and if Puisaye had possessed half a brain – a department in which he was seriously lacking – he would have spotted it. His next words underlined that.

  ‘In the future you will recover that which was both yours and that which belonged to your late husband. France will once again have a king and will once again have our prelates and priests, as well as a docile and contented peasantry. I have no doubt of my ability to convince the Government of England—’

  ‘Great Britain,’ Pearce interjected, losing patience with this posturing. ‘England is only part of the country of which you speak.’

  Puisaye waved that away as if it was no account, which annoyed Pearce even more; if he was far from even slightly rabid in the cause of Caledonia, he still came from Scottish stock. Failing to mention that country or Wales was a habit hard enough to bear in the English and not to be borne at all in a foreigner.

  ‘As I was saying, when I have outlined to them what can be achieved with support, I am sure that they will despatch powerful forces to the Vendée. Then it is we who will employ the guillotine to rid our beautiful land of the scum who have despoiled it.’

  ‘You have yet to answer my question, Jean.’

  ‘I …’

  ‘You are committed elsewhere.’

  ‘I am not sure the lady of whom you speak would understand.’

  ‘What is to understand? We were lovers – that has cooled but we can still be friends.’

  How could he say that such a thing could not be, that this was stuffy England not lax Paris, to even attempt it might destroy the thing he sought most at this moment in his life? He was sure that even to mention Amélie to Emily – God they share a name, which he had not realised previously – would cause complications over which he would have no control. The chance to speak the truth was there for him to take advantage of; prevarication won hands down.

  ‘Let us leave that aside for now,’ Pearce finally responded, picking up the full bottle that had replaced the one just emptied. ‘More wine?’

  HMS Queen Charlotte had raised Penlee Point and with much banging of signal guns from the flagship the Channel Fleet entered Plymouth Sound. Those vessels most in need of repair were sent upriver to the dockyard, the rest anchoring as commanded by the flagship. As soon as they were secured and the necessary reports and logs were delivered to Queen Charlotte the ship visiting began and along with that invitations to dine.

  Ralph Barclay was forced to decline that he should be called upon to move – he pleaded his wound – and so missed the first round of dinners, instead receiving aboard HMS Semele the following day a pair of officer acquaintances who esteemed him as a colleague and had been made aware of his infirmity. Whistles blew and marines saluted as they came aboard; Albemarle Bertie from HMS Thunderer and Anthony Molloy of HMS Caesar, accompanied by their premiers, the table made up to full with the addition of Ralph Barclay’s own remaining lieutenants and a spotty midshipman.

  He was in possession of ample stores, having been a recipient already in this war of a decent amount of prize money, and he had been granted ample time to send ashore for the very best local produce. Thus Ralph Barclay was able to set a good table and ply his guests with wine of a high quality. Throughout the meal the battle in which they had so recently been engaged was re-fought in a manner that allowed it to move from the experience of each of the commanders individually to a collective appreciation of the whole.

  With the guests as cheered by victory as their host it did not take long, and this was the nature of the service, for Lord Howe’s actions in the battle to come under a less than flattering scrutiny. Had he pressed home the attack with sufficient vigour? Could more have been done to confound the enemy? Why had the fleet not pursued the fleeing French to seek to take more prizes, given the damage to many of their ships was greater than that of the British Fleet? On the whole it was agreed any captain present – indeed most of the lieutenants, they were informed – could have done better.

  ‘He’s far too old for the task,’ opined Bertie, his round, childlike face being shaken to underline the folly of giving command to a man of such advanced years. ‘Word is he left the deck before the action was over. Past his three score years and ten, and as for Curtis, well he’s an old woman, to my mind.’

  There was a moment of silence as that thought was ruminated upon; as Captain of Fleet, in essence the executive officer and advisor to the commanding admiral, Sir Roger Curtis would have had a great say in what actions had been undertaken and he would have taken over direction of the battle when Howe retired to his cabin. His abilities were equally traduced.

  ‘Then there is the grain convoy,’ Ralph Barclay said, this to fellow officers who looked mystified at the reference, causing their host to add, with a degree of caution, ‘You surely recall that the purpose of the fleet being at sea was to intercept that convoy, which we signally failed to do.’

  ‘Never saw the damned thing,’ Molloy responded.

  This was said in a tone more forthright than he had employed in discussing the battle, an action from which HMS Caesar had emerged unscathed, having not been in a position to close with the enemy. His peers had nodded sagely as he explained why that should be, accepting that regardless of Howe’s orders to do so, the state of his ship and the nature of the wind had made such a thing impossible.

  ‘Precisely,’ Ralph Barclay said, slapping the tabletop and fixing his guests with a knowing look. He reminded them of the first sighted frigate and what had followed as they, indeed the whole Channel Fleet, had pursued it. ‘I have an inkling that we might have been deliberately drawn off by that fellow. Led us straight to his main fleet, did he not, and quite possibly away from the grain convoy.’

  Nods were all his fellow captains would allow themselves as they
recalled what their host was saying was true and what it might portend; France was rumoured to be on the verge of starvation after yet another poor harvest and if that came to pass the revolutionary government was bound to fall. The convoy in question, up to, it was said, a couple of hundred deep-hulled merchantmen, had set sail from the United States weeks before with enough grain aboard to alleviate the problem of famine, which, in essence meant the continuation of the war.

  Ralph Barclay carried on talking, the note in his voice emboldened by a decent amount of claret. ‘Might have been better to have ignored that frigate and gone in search of the convoy. Happen Black Dick Howe will get a rap on the knuckles instead of the praise and the dukedom he expects.’

  ‘You might have the right of it, Barclay,’ Albemarle Bertie insisted, ‘but you’ll have the devil of a job persuading anyone now of such a view. Hindsight rarely does the trick in such matters.’

  ‘Not so, Bertie, given I took the precaution of noting that possibility in my log at the time. We are talking of foresight not hindsight.’

  ‘How much do you reckon on the prize money, Barclay?’ Molloy asked, looking bored with what was being discussed.

  That changed the subject swiftly and it was generally agreed that the sum to be distributed for what had been taken, this calculated by men who knew their stuff, could not be much less than a quarter of a million pounds sterling, which had the junior officers trying to silently calculate what it meant for them on fiddling fingers hidden under the table.

  Bertie raised his glass at the sum mentioned. ‘Then I say, damn the grain convoy, let’s drink to that.’

  ‘Hear him,’ chorused the assembled lieutenants and the solitary mid, as hands appeared to lift and empty their wine.