by Hunter, Seth
“Dear God,” said Bowen, clinging to the shroud at Nathan’s side. “Did you ever think to see such a sight?”
Nathan shook his head. Ships sometimes blew up but he had never heard of an incident where a ship that size was sunk by gunfire.
He pulled out his watch. It was almost a half after twelve and firing had now ceased all along the line.
“I don’t know about you,” he said, “but I am about ready for my dinner.”
Later, the midshipman Codrington came up to him and told him the admiral wished to see him in his cabin. He found Howe lying in his cot. He looked as if he had aged ten years.
“I give you joy of your victory, my lord,” he said, for this seemed to be the considered opinion now that the smoke of battle had cleared and the tally took. One French ship sunk and six taken: the Sans Pareil, the Juste, the America, the Impétueux, the Northumberland and the Achille. More than in any naval battle since the Dutch wars of the last century, according to Curtis who was talking up the victory as loudly as he could.
“I am sorry so many got away,” said Howe, “but it cannot be helped. The Captain of the Fleet says we are in no condition to pursue.”
And Howe was in no condition to argue, Nathan thought. Then the admiral raised himself on one elbow and regarded him with something of his old fire.
“Well, you will be able to tell your father what it is like to take part in a real battle,” he said, “for the Saints was just a skirmish by comparison and the French running from the start.”
“Yes, my lord,” Nathan agreed. He took a chance: “And the convoy, my lord?”
“The convoy?”
“The grain convoy—from America.” It seemed churlish to harp on it but the victory would be meaningless, he thought, if the convoy was allowed to escape.
“Ah, the convoy.” He frowned. “We must leave the convoy to Admiral Montagu, for the fleet must away to Spithead for repairs.”
But half our ships barely saw action, Nathan longed to inform him. Can you not send them to join Montagu in the hunt? But he held his tongue—more out of respect for the admiral’s years and his present vulnerability than for his rank.
“I want you to go ahead,” said Howe, “in the . . . what is she called, your barky?”
“The Speedwell, my lord.” Nathan’s heart was in his mouth.
“The Speedwell. A good name for the task. Speed well, my boy, and take the news of our victory to England. I doubt but they will be glad of it, even the Earl of Chatham.” He signalled to his clerk who came forward with a sealed letter. “Give him this and tell him I will write a longer report when I am able, but this will give him the bare bones of the story to share with his miserable brother.” He fell back on his pillow. “And I hope they choke on it,” he added with a weary smile.
Chapter 36
Spoils of Victory
No news of the convoy, I suppose?” inquired the First Lord with a frown as he looked up from the report.
“I regret not, my Lord,” replied Nathan. “At least, not when I left the fleet.”
“Well, I suppose we may still call it a victory.” He regarded Nathan doubtfully as if for confirmation.
“Of course, my lord. A great victory. We took six ships,” he reminded him, “and sank another.”
“Quite, quite. Yes, if it were not for the convoy . . .”
Nathan watched Chatham thinking about it, the strategist in him bewailing the loss of the convoy while the politician weighed what he might make of the “victory.” They were in his room at the Admiralty with the blinds partly drawn against the sun and Howe’s report open on his desk.
“Well, I must send to the King and let him know.” Chatham brightened. “In fact, we could take the news ourselves. But first I must inform brother William. We had better go there on the way.”
“As you wish, my lord.” He was exhausted after the Speedwell’s four-day sprint for the English Channel and two days and a night in the chaise from Falmouth.
“I must say a victory is most opportune. The news from the continent has been universally bad and people are complaining about the security measures we have had to take. The country is not happy, not happy at all. In fact there is talk of turning us out. This will put a stop to that. In fact it will dish the liberals well and truly. Mr. Fox will be most put out.”
The politician having clearly risen above the strategist.
“I am glad to be the bearer of good tidings, my lord,” said Nathan coolly.
“Yes. We can put quite a good complexion on it if we play our cards right. No one need know about the convoy. It is smashing their fleet that counts. And as you say, seven ships and none lost.” He rubbed his hands like a miser counting his coin. “Not a bad score at all when you think on it. How was Lord Howe when you left him?”
“A little tired, my Lord, but otherwise in good spirits.”
“Well, perhaps he will want to retire after this. Did he have any special message for me?”
“Only that he hoped you would be pleased, my Lord.”
“Yes.” He sniffed. “Well, and I suppose we must give him his due.” He looked at Nathan thoughtfully. “And I suppose you must have your promotion.”
Nathan tried to look as if the thought had never occurred to him.
“Oh, we have to reward the messenger,” Chatham assured him. “It is expected. If he be blamed for defeat it is only right that he be rewarded for victory.” He seemed to be disappointed at Nathan’s response. “Would you not like to be made post captain?”
“Of course, my lord, if it is deserved.”
“Oh, as to that,” he gave a barking laugh, “if we were only to promote men who deserved it we would have none to command our ships. Besides, your activities in France are more than deserving of promotion, except that we cannot publish them. This gives us the excuse.”
“Well, my lord . . .”
“We cannot give you much of a plum at the moment, mind. Too many senior men waiting. We can probably find one of the older frigates for you if someone dies.”
“That would be most welcome, my lord. But . . .” He hesitated a moment as Chatham raised his brows. “I am more than willing to resume command of the Speedwell, my lord, if you need her to return to France.”
“What?” Chatham’s astonishment appeared genuine. “Good God. What, you would go back to France?”
“Willingly, my lord, if you require it.”
“Well, I will not disguise the fact that it would be convenient. In fact there is a cargo waiting at Newhaven as we speak. We were debating how best to dispatch it but as the Speedwell is known to the French authorities as an American vessel and a blockade runner . . . Yes, it would serve very well indeed.” But then a thought occurred to him and he frowned again. “And while you are about it, you might ask Mr. Imlay what has happened to our gold. Mr. Pitt never ceases to remind me of it.”
“I will, my lord,” Nathan assured him, though the gold was the last thing on his mind.
“I must say, I am surprised at your eagerness to return to the land of Terror. Have you formed an attachment to the Revolutionists—or do you have some trollop stowed away there?”
Nathan was still struggling for a reply when Chatham rose from his desk and rang the bell for his servant.
“Well, whoever she is, I am obliged to her. Now let us to our masters. Ah, Danvers, my coat if you would—I am going out.”
“You seriously mean us to visit the palace, my lord?”
“Why, yes. His Majesty is always eager to hear first-hand accounts of a battle. If we have won it, of course. Do not mention the convoy, by the by.”
“No, my lord. But I fear I am not dressed for a formal occasion.”
He still wore the uniform he had borrowed on the Charlotte. Gabriel had done his best with it bu
t it still bore the stains of battle and it had been none too smart to begin with.
“You’ll do. The more you look like you’ve been through the mill the better. What is that on your head?”
“Nought but a scratch, my lord.”
“I can see that, but how d’you get it?”
“I was attacked by a cock, my lord, in the heat of battle.”
Chatham frowned as if he was being made game of but merely remarked, “A pity. A wound is always useful.”
“I am sorry, my lord, I will try to do better next time.”
“He might want to knight you, of course. He sometimes takes it into his head to knight people if he is particularly pleased with them—or himself—or has lost his wits entirely. If he does, don’t let it go to your head. It is to reward the fleet, not you. We can send you back to Paris with a ribbon on your chest. I expect she’d like that, your little French madam.”
Chapter 37
the Supreme Being
Nathan arrived in Paris—by the diligence from Le Havre—to find the city decked with flowers and the streets filled with people in their Sunday best. A pretty girl in a white frock handed him a leaflet to tell him what it was all about. God had returned to France. It was officially proclaimed by the Convention, announced in the press and sanctioned by the Committee of Public Safety. Indeed, Citizen Robespierre himself had proposed it. Atheism, he had declared, was an aristocratic conceit. There was a God, he was probably French—by inclination if not birth—and he was unquestionably a Revolutionist. Being a Revolutionist himself, of course, Robespierre had been compelled to change God’s name. He was now the Supreme Being. And to celebrate His return, Paris was having a party.
The programme notes informed Nathan that the famous painter and Revolutionist, Citizen David, had devised a vast public spectacle stretching from the Tuileries Gardens to the Champs de Mars. It involved thousands of people, dozens of effigies and set pieces, hymns, speeches and an artificial mountain.
This made it extremely difficult for Nathan to get to the Rue Jacob. He tried to push a way through the crowd but many of the streets had been closed off and he kept running up against barriers and lines of National Guardsmen so in the end he resigned himself to his predicament and went with the flow, slinging his bag over his shoulder.
The weather had been regulated for the occasion. The sun shone, the sky was blue and many of the women and children carried bunches of wild flowers to symbolise Prairial, the month of the meadow. In the gardens of the Tuileries three monstrous effigies had been built to represent Atheism, Egotism and Insincerity, according to the programme notes, though not a few among the crowd seemed to think they were the new gods of the Revolution. Even more, judging from the comments Nathan heard, thought that the Supreme Being was Robespierre himself and that this was the title he now wished to be known by—instead of the Incorruptible, or the Tribune of the People—though it was quite all right to refer to him as all three and did not risk prosecution. There was a band playing and a choir of boys and girls dressed in the uniform white, the girls with wreaths of wild flowers in their hair and the boys carrying wands of oak, singing a hymn to Nature.
When it ended there was a fanfare of trumpets, the doors of the palace were thrown open and a long procession of representatives wound down the steps of the assembly hall and into the gardens. They all wore suits and carried sheaths of corn—which might be considered tactless with the price of bread still standing at fifty sous a loaf on the black market. There was no news in the press of the battle in mid-Atlantic or of the fate of the grain convoy from America.
The procession was led by Robespierre, whose turn it was—almost certainly not coincidentally—to be President of the Convention. This was his day, his triumph, and he was dressed for the occasion. He wore a magnificent blue silk coat and yellow trousers (robin’s-egg blue and jonquil, according to the programme notes), he carried his hat in his hand and his powdered hair reflected the light of the sun—rather like a halo, Nathan thought. He was presented with a flaming torch and advanced alone on the figure of Atheism, like a little boy in a fairy tale confronting the ogre.
A roar from the crowd as he applied the torch and Atheism went up in flames. Oohs and aahs as a similar fate befell Egotism and Insincerity. Was there a note of irony, even of ridicule? Or was it simple pleasure, the relief of watching a spectacle that did not involve bloodshed and the guillotine; a break from the endless drudgery of work and finding something to eat?
Another collective gasp from the crowd. Atheism had collapsed in a shower of sparks to reveal another figure within, a little scorched but miraculously intact.
“What is it?” asked a woman on Nathan’s right standing on tiptoe to see above the heads of the crowd.
“Wisdom,” Nathan read from his notes, “emerging from the ashes of Atheism and Ignorance.”
The procession flowed on along the river to the Place de la Révolution and across the bridge to the Champs de Mars. Here Citizen David had built his “Mountain”—a towering structure of grey cardboard decorated with rocks and trees and shrubs and wild flowers and with a hidden staircase winding to the summit.
Another fanfare of trumpets and Robespierre led the representatives of the people up the Mountain. Cries of “Vive la République!” and “Vive Robespierre!” from the vast crowd that had followed the procession.
But there seemed to be a hitch. The representatives of the people were hanging back. They did not seem anxious to follow their leader to the summit. Were they fearful of encroaching on his territory—or was it for some other reason? Nathan noted expressions of scorn, even hatred, on some of the faces. Then he saw Vadier—his interrogator of the Châtelet. He was standing with a small huddle of the most reluctant deputies with a face even more cadaverous and scowling than ever.
“Look at them,” Nathan heard a male voice in the crowd just behind him. “They hate him. One false step and they’ll tear him apart.”
“But why?” A woman’s voice.
“Because they fear him. He’s the Incorruptible and they’ve had their hands in too many pockets.”
Robespierre had reached the summit. He turned to face the crowd—quite alone. He seemed to be unconscious of this—or perhaps he did not mind: perhaps he thought it was his right. He raised his arms and there was a roar from the crowd. “Vive la République, Vive Robespierre!”
He was still the People’s Tribune, thought Nathan, still commanding the adulation of the crowd.
“Listen to them cheering,” said the woman’s voice again.
“They cheered Danton, too,” said the man’s, “and would not raise a finger to save him.”
Nathan had to stop himself from turning round to see what manner of man this was but he knew better than to do such a thing in Paris, especially when he heard the woman say, “Hush, or you’ll find yourself in the House of Arrest.”
Another hymn to Nature, another dance, and the celebration was over. And Nathan made his way northward through the thinning crowds towards the Rue Jacob.
He approached the house with some trepidation. After an absence of three months he was not sure how he would be received. He was braced for anger, recrimination or, worse, indifference, embarrassment, a new lover . . . Or of not finding her at all. She might have left Paris, returned to her native Provence or fled France altogether. But if she was there and she still wanted him, he would ask her to marry him. He had made up his mind to it. He could not offer her much—the King had unhappily neglected to make him a baronet—but he was reasonably confident that Chatham would keep his promise to make him post captain on his return and at the very least he could ensure her safety.
He stared for a moment, uncomprehendingly, at the sealed lock on the door.
There was a handwritten sign above it, peeling from rain and heat: Property of the Republic. Sealed by order of the Committee of G
eneral Security. Perhaps it was the wrong house. But no there was her name among the obligatory list of residents.
He stepped back and pressed his knuckles against his teeth. He might have known this would happen. Indeed he had feared it but pushed it to the back of his mind as too fearful to even think about. But it must be a recent occurrence or surely Imlay would have told him when he had last seen him aboard the Speedwell. Had she been arrested or had she fled? He looked up at the shuttered windows. Who could he ask? He tried the houses on each side. No reply. The house opposite. An old woman, the concierge, sharp with suspicion. She knew nothing of a Madame Seton or her maid Hélène. He should try the violin—which, after a moment’s confusion Nathan identified as Paris slang for the local police station. He thanked her and walked away. There was a hotel at the end of the road where he ordered a carafe of wine and some bread and cheese and sat down to think it over. A plaque above the fireplace informed him that this was, or had once been, the Hotel York where Benjamin Franklin and John Adams and John Jay had signed the Treaty of Paris to end the war with Britain in 1783.
Imlay, he thought. Imlay would know. And so would Mary. Both were in Paris according to Imlay’s clerk in Le Havre. Or at least Mary was: in Neuilly-sur-Seine where Nathan had met them at Christmas after Tom Paine’s arrest . . . He left the rest of his wine, paid the bill and headed back into the baking streets.
She was sitting on a bench in the garden with a babe at her breast and the maid Hélène pushing little Alex on a swing. There were flowers, trellises with climbers, a rambling rose . . . As pretty a picture as even David might have contrived for one of his set pieces. Until Nathan appeared at the garden gate.
