His captain nearly opened up and aired his thinking, but he stopped himself just in time, not least because he might be wrong and it would never do to be seen as that. The final despatches he had received before he weighed from the Nore had emphasised the need to look out for a huge food convoy coming from the Americas.
If that was truly as important as had been implied, then the best way to protect it was to draw off the risk of contact with the British warships who would wreak havoc upon defenceless merchantmen. Deducing that might be the case changed nothing; he was a subordinate captain and it was not his task to do anything other than obey.
However, a note in his log mentioning the possibility was paramount; never a direct question as to the nature of the orders he received, but a carefully worded hint that they might be misplaced, such allusions could be the difference between being perceived as wise, instead of being tarred by the same brush as a fool coming up seventy and long past his prime.
CHAPTER TWENTY
If Pearce was shocked to discover his one-time Parisian mistress hiding out in a Vendéean marsh, it at least had the effect of establishing his bona fides: there was now no one questioning that he was who he claimed to be, while beyond the fond remembrance of someone he thought might be dead he was here on a mission.
So after a brief exchange of affectionate remarks, which included the information that Amélie Labordière was now a widow, and an unkind thought that a year of age and deprivation had not done anything for her beauty, he was obliged by the people assembled to greet him to turn to matters more important. That he might be tired from a long day, which started at first light, of crossing marshland and bog, did not seem to occur to his hosts.
He was led to a large if roughly constructed cabin, which, given the abundance of coarse-hewn seating, seemed to act as some kind of meeting place. Hot because of the fire, as well as the numbers who crowded within to hear what he had to say, smoky through the lack of a proper chimney, Pearce was made doubly ill at ease by the proximity of many of those assembled, as well as still having about his neck the heavy bags of money – something he was determined to keep concealed until he knew they would be of use.
‘Stay right beside me, Michael,’ he said as he prepared to sit.
‘Sure, John-boy, I have no notion of where I might be going if I do not.’
‘I will be talking in French.’
‘And I will be watching the eyes of these folk while you do.’
That made Pearce smile and wonder what these Frenchmen would make of being carefully examined, for he had no doubt that Michael’s scrutiny, even if he could not understand a word of what was being said, would be acute. The amused look was still there when he turned to address the Comte de Puisaye and outline his reasons for being here; he was not given a chance.
‘I hope, monsieur, that you are here as the precursor of a much more numerous force of men and material?’
‘No, monsieur, I come as an emissary only.’
That produced an immediate reaction from the assembly and it was not a heartening one; they were looking at each other with dismay, some of it rather theatrical in its intensity. What had been benign looks changed when the hubbub diminished and were now quite hostile, though the count made an effort to be diplomatic both in his countenance and his words.
‘We have sent messages to England over many months requesting aid.’
‘And, monsieur, they have been heard,’ Pearce responded, without being exactly sure that he was speaking the unvarnished truth, the sudden feeling he had been despatched by Dundas as some kind of sop impossible to suppress. ‘Which is why I am here.’
‘Surely more than just two men and one musket?’
‘There is a ship off the coast,’ Pearce lied, not prepared to say that he hoped it was still at anchor in the Bay of Noirmoutier.
‘A large ship?’
‘No, it is an armed cutter.’
That description required further explanation, which in turn set off more loud murmurs around the hut, more looks, none of them pleasant, a few downright hostile, the most telling coming from the high-ranking prelate, which brought a whisper in his ear from Michael.
‘Are we in a tub of trouble here, John-boy?’
Pearce could do no more than gesture his uncertainty with a shrug, given he was unsure if there was anyone present who spoke English. He was given time to do so by the heated whispered conference being entered into by those who led the assembly.
‘This,’ the count said finally, when he turned once more to Pearce, his face no longer that of the bland mediator, but now with pursed lips and a stare of deep displeasure, ‘does not make us content.’
Pearce replied with a query, to which he was sure he already knew the answer. ‘I am here to find out: what would?’
He was not disappointed, even if the number who tried with loud voices and many gestures to give him an answer overwhelmed any clarity. They wanted an army of redcoats sufficient to overcome their enemies, cavalry, artillery, muskets, food and transport – not enough to just secure the Vendée but to reverse the gains of the Revolution, nothing less than to take the whole west as a prelude to reinstating the monarchy.
‘Messieurs,’ he cried, holding up his hands, about to explain that the British did not have the resources for what was being demanded, given their other commitments, before engaging in a rapid rethink, brought on partly by a reluctance to explain the position of Pitt’s government.
That was not his position either by inclination or design, but the other feeling was the greater; he had been tasked to find out the situation here and what were the chances of success for some kind of military intervention. Such an investigation would not be aided by a purely negative response, and to that was added his impression of his audience.
John Pearce liked the French; he knew they had as many good qualities as other nations, but an excess of rationality was not one of them, and that did not just apply to the mobs of Paris or the other cities where the Revolution had produced riots and endless beheadings.
Before him, and the Count of Puisaye was one of the number – the overdressed and bejewelled prelate even more so – were the representatives of a body of people who had brought the mayhem of the last few years on their own heads and all they seemed to want was that which they had once had restored.
It was interesting but not helpful to recall that these were the opinions of his late father: that if the privileged did not see a way to gently surrender what they possessed, then those with nothing would take it by force. That Adam Pearce had been wrong about the ability of the lower strata of society to rise up on their own did not obviate the fact that there were people fired by good intentions as well as opportunist rabble-rousers willing to provide the required spark.
Probably few, if any, present had been to the Versailles of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette – neither had he, but like them he knew of it by import, just as he knew what it represented: a monarchy and its supporters utterly out of touch with the citizenry, an institution bankrupt not only financially but politically, a polity who could not see that their protection of their advantaged existence stank in the nostrils of their fellow countrymen.
The French Church, no doubt the bishop now glaring at him too, sat like a great octopus on the nation, deluding the pious, sucking out money which it lent to the King and his ministers – not for good purpose, but so they could maintain their hold on their rich and corrupt benefices: their gold, their bejewelled chalices and their garments stitched with precious thread, as well as their perfumed mistresses.
‘Sure, I don’t know who is looking more grim,’ Michael said, ‘you, John-boy, or they.’
Pearce relaxed his jaw, aware that he had let his thinking run riot and that must be obvious by his countenance. ‘If their thoughts are anything like mine it will be moot, brother.’ His eyes ranging round the room, he saw the sad eyes of Amélie through a gap between two men engaged in voluble complaint, and he knew he must, for her sake
if no other, produce some encouragement.
‘But,’ he said in a voice loud enough to overcome the hubbub, added to a confidence wholly manufactured, ‘if I can take back to England a positive report of the prospects for my nation’s arms in assisting your revolt, I am assured that aid will be forthcoming.’
‘A mere naval lieutenant?’ demanded the bishop. ‘And such a decision?’
‘A very well-connected one, Your Grace.’
The pause was long, the nod slow, but the prelate understood more than most how good connections made men of seemingly low rank important; if any institution favoured such arrangements, it was the Catholic Church – what else could they do with their bastard offspring?
‘I must be made aware of your strengths,’ Pearce added loudly, ‘and, sad to say, where you are weak. I must also be able to assess what it is you face and, should an army land here, how you are going to both aid and sustain them, and I would humbly suggest that cannot be done sitting in this hut.’
If Pearce was glad to get out of that stifling cabin and be shown to a smaller less stuffy one of his own, the arrival, after only a few moments, of Amélie Labordière was not so cheering. Indeed he was grateful – and not only to protect his funds – that no one had suggested that Michael O’Hagan rest his head anywhere else but in the same place.
She entered through the wicker door with purpose, but that was immediately put in abeyance by the presence of the huge Irishman. She looked from one to the other and in that moment, because she was close to a lantern, Pearce could see just how unkind what she had lived through had been since he last saw her; there were lines where previously none had existed and an air about her that smacked of desperation.
‘You’ll be wanting a bit of peace, John-boy,’ Michael said, looking from one to the other.
Pearce just shook his head; she did not speak English, but there were words and the way of delivering them that required no knowledge of language. Sadly there were gestures too, and it was clear by the look on her face that she had picked up the gist of the exchange. Pearce covered his embarrassment by indicating she should sit on the cot provided for him to sleep on.
‘Does your fellow speak French, Jean?’ she asked, receiving another shake of the head in reply. ‘Then perhaps you will tell me why I am not welcome?’
‘How can you think you are not that?’
‘Do you intend that he should leave us alone?’
The reply was as feeble as the expression that accompanied it. ‘I would not want to inconvenience him.’
‘It is less trouble to inconvenience me, then?’
It was time to be a little more forthright, even if he kept his tone muted. ‘How am I doing that?’
She laughed then and time fell away for Pearce, for if there had been one thing apart from her evident loveliness that had made her an attractive companion, it had been that: the ability to be amused where other women would have been irate. He was back in those gilded salons where wit, beauty and the high intelligence of both sexes combined to produce sparkling conversation. Michael’s voice swept that away.
‘I have no notion to stop your pleasures, John-boy, nor am I one to spill what you have been about when we get home.’
‘Did you have to mention that?’
‘I sense, Jean, I am no longer the object of your interest I once was.’ He made to protest but Amélie kept talking. ‘When I met you first you were an engaging young man, but lacking in experience, yes?’
Pearce nodded. ‘And the fact that I was not made me a desirable companion, as well as a bed partner to cherish.’
‘It was more than that, Amélie,’ he replied, his voice slightly hoarse.
‘One of my experiences, Jean, was to know and recognise what it is like when a passion cools and one is no longer the centre of a lover’s affections. Who is she?’
The thought of saying ‘no one’ did not seem wise. ‘Does it matter?’
‘No, but it is a pity, nevertheless.’ She laughed again. ‘Or is it that I am free of constraints now that those swine have killed my Armand?’
‘How did he die?’
‘Fighting, which was odd, for he had never used a weapon other than a pen or an abacus in his life. What, you might ask, was a tax gatherer doing with a sword in his hand? Was it that he had a cause?’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘So, Jean, am I,’ she replied, before turning and leaving.
‘Was that you being noble?’ Michael enquired.
‘Stupid more like,’ Pearce snapped, which only made his friend laugh. ‘Now let’s get some sleep, we will have a busy day on the morrow.’
‘Just as well, then, John-boy, you turned down a busy night.’
If it was dark outside the windows of the Admiralty it was not quiet, for London was still busy at night, not only because of those about their revels, but with the noise of endless carts, all the produce being brought in to feed the world’s greatest metropolis. Sir Phillip Stephens was going through the last of his mail, the letters that came in daily from supplicant officers, those who pleaded their case in search of employment, most of which would be passed to a clerk for a polite refusal, to be signed by whichever naval lord was available to do so on the morrow.
The handwriting of Sir Berkley Sumner he recognised immediately from the frequency of the missives the dolt sent in, but these too had to be given a response. As he opened it, Sir Phillip let his mind drift once more to the prospect of his upcoming retirement; if he took pleasure in affairs of moment he would not be sorry to see the back of this task, one he dare not delegate, given that to ignore some well-connected fellow or his powerful patron would only rebound on his head.
Sumner’s letter was, as usual, larded with compliments to the Admiralty secretary’s sagacity and unquestionable ability, while politely enquiring as to his health, which the old admiral hoped was sound given his burdens and long service. Then there came the list of Sumner’s achievements, acts seen in the light of his undiminished vanity as worthy; others who had witnessed them saw them as black marks against any notion of granting him future provision. Then it came to the nub.
‘Raynesford?’
Sir Phillip mouthed the name with an air of uncertainty. He was a man who prided himself on his memory, and he could recall no lieutenant of that identity being granted a commission at any time in the past, never mind recently. But he was, he knew, past his prime, so he rang a bell and, when that was responded to, asked one of his clerks to enquire.
The information that came back made him wonder if old Sumner had finally lost what few marbles he retained, but it drove him back to the letter again and the fact that the information from the senile ditherer had come to him from the local county newspaper, not in itself a source of utter reliability, but one nevertheless he should take cognisance of.
Was it an error, a person wrongly named, or in fact an impostor? If it was not unknown for dubious types to pretend to be naval officers, so Sir Phillip reasoned that such a possibility was best acted on. A polite reply was sent to Admiral Sir Berkley Sumner, thanking him for the information, with the added point that no such person existed and, as a precaution, in case of chicanery or an attempt at fraud, word would be sent to the local justices to investigate the matter.
Sir Phillip was, however, sorry that there were no suitable places available, even for a man of such high rank and exceptional talent.
In Lymington, Emily Barclay, if she was alone was not lonely, occupying herself during the day with long walks and in the evenings with reading and embroidery, taking her meals in the small parlour and generally being extremely discreet in any exchanges she had with the locals, who were naturally keen to make the acquaintance of the wife of a naval officer from without the boundaries of the town, who rumour insisted had come directly from London.
Given that connection, her clothing was examined closely to discern what must be the latest fashion, which led to much stitching and altering in many another parlour, to copy the s
tyle of what Emily wore, both in her dresses and her bonnets, those who did so unaware of their provenance, which was actually her hometown in Somerset.
The only other thing she had undertaken, and this went with her daily walks, was to engage a local artist to teach her to draw and perhaps in the future paint with watercolours or even oils. He, an elderly fellow, would accompany her in her hack with his boards and an easel to oversee and comment upon her efforts.
Each evening, of course, she would take another stroll, to look out from the harbour to the estuary, wondering about John Pearce, not only where he was and what he was doing, but whether her actions in agreeing to come here to Lymington had truly been wise. Then she would feel a sensation in her lower belly, and that would produce a private smile.
Determined to impress him, the servants who attended to the leaders of the revolt had been required to take away and clean their visitors’ clothing, as well as to replace what they could not launder. They also provided the pair with more appropriate hunting clothes, Michael’s rough cloth, Pearce given garments of high quality, so it was with smart leathers and well-brushed thigh-high boots he appeared before them.
There was to be no more walking either; they were each allotted a sturdy pony and provisions, the saddlebags of which were perfect for Pearce to keep out of sight Dundas’s specie. Once mounted they were led away into the wetlands, this time on well-used tracks that kept them out of the bogs and ponds, their route due east into the still rising sun.
That the marshland was extensive he did not doubt, but Pearce reasoned it was easy to skulk within the confines of such an area and occasionally exit to prod an unprepared enemy, much more difficult to mount a full-blown campaign of the kind being proposed; this was no landscape with which to progress through a fully equipped army.
Enemies at Every Turn Page 23
