‘I asked Captain Barclay to meet me on neutral ground. Am I to assume he declines that also?’ Gherson nodded. ‘Then, much as it displeases me to deal with you …’
Gherson’s look was a picture; he was so vain, with his absurdly handsome face and near-girlish features, he could not accept even now, and after all the times he had faced her angry rejections, that Emily was not in the least bit attracted to him. No doubt he had contemplated, after her previous words, that he might keep her himself as a mistress.
‘Take that smirk off your face, you snake!’
He was not thrown. ‘You call me a snake, madam? Physician, heal thyself, I say, for like Eve, it is you who are the betrayer. It is a fault of your sex, as I know only too well from having dealt with many women myself.’
Fists clenched, Emily fought the desire to dispute with him: it would not serve. Instead she held out the paper she had brought from upstairs. ‘I will not give this into your hand, since my trust in you is so low I have no knowledge of how you would use it – probably to blackmail my husband, not to aid him. But you may come closer and look.’
He declined to move. ‘What can a piece of paper tell me?’
‘This is a fair copy of part of a transcript of my husband’s court martial, which both you and I know to have been a tissue of concocted lies and perjured testimony before a court hand-picked by Sir William Hotham. It is taken from the original sent to Lord Hood for his confirmation of sentence and it is part of the testimony given by my nephew Toby.’
He had moved closer as she spoke, to stare at the paper she was holding out. Her handwriting was neat and copperplate, so easy to read.
‘You will wonder how I came by such a thing and you may do so till hell freezes over, for I will keep my counsel, but I have the court record in its entirety in my possession, and safe. Should my husband fail to support me, these papers will be placed in hands that will see Captain Barclay, and for all I know you with him, had up for blatant perjury. I shall also write to Admiral Hotham to let him know what I am about to do, and he is not a man to suffer disgrace. I daresay any threat to his reputation will see him throw you all to the wolves.’
Gherson was not smiling now; he had on his face a pout that would not have shamed a child denied a sweetmeat.
‘Tell my husband to accede to my request for a meeting. Mrs Fletcher will show you out.’
‘I don’t believe you, madam. You were present at the court martial, these must be notes you made, which renders them useless, since you cannot testify against your husband or proffer evidence against him.’
‘Gherson, I do not care if you believe me or not, you are of no account. Good day.’
‘Your nephew will suffer most, madam, which in turn will bring shame on your whole family.’
That was a telling barb, but she knew Toby Burns to be a liar and a coward; knew he had stolen, with her husband’s contrivance, Pearce’s achievements in Brittany. Any disgrace would break the hearts of her aunt and uncle and she had considered the matter before.
‘Toby has made his own bed, and so must lie on it,’ she replied, well aware that it was far from being that simple.
‘A bed that might well be Botany Bay.’
‘You may face the same fate.’
‘No, Mrs Barclay,’ Gherson replied, with such annoying and resurgent confidence. ‘I committed no words to the court that could in any way be questioned by another, Pearce notwithstanding, which leaves it as his word against mine.’
‘I am sure you have other crimes that will one day see you transported. Now, get out!’
The slow, elegant bow was infuriating.
Emily was shaking by the time she got back to her rooms, thankful that she had not succumbed to that in Gherson’s presence, well aware the snake had spotted the flaw in her proposition. She could not ditch her husband without also ditching her nephew, who had been the chief court martial witness. Could she pay that price? Should she write to him and give him a chance to repent and if she did and he agreed, how would that affect her future life?
Midday found Toby Burns on the steep coastal hills of East Corsica which ran right down to the sea, creating valleys of varying depth, with the leaders of the army, General Dundas and Colonel Stuart, eying the first of the enemy positions through their spyglasses, a redoubt with half a dozen cannon covering the sloping, intervening ground. Beyond that in the distance, hugging the shore, lay Bastia, with the sticks of ships’ masts, if not the hulls, visible in the harbour.
The old fishing town was between them and the citadel, which protected that anchorage, the white walls of which, even without the magnification of a telescope, looked pretty formidable. That was underlined by the layered defences, which had been set up in between. The French had known they were coming and had made their preparations accordingly. They intended to exact a high price from their enemy before they could even think of closing the harbour and investing the city. From fifty yards’ distance, Toby Burns observed the negative shakes of the head and a degree of heated discussion: these army officers were seemingly not enamoured of their prospects, which suited him admirably. Uncomfortable as it would be, he would happily re-cross the mountains without another shot being fired. Driffield was closer, within earshot of the discussions, and it was not long before he came striding towards the midshipman, his face angry.
‘Damn these bullocks, they are a shy lot.’
‘How so, sir?’
‘They say that what lies before us is too formidable to assault with the forces we have, and even if we could subdue the outworks they lack the means to lay siege to the city.’
‘So we pull back?’ Toby asked, careful to sound disappointed.
‘After a demonstration, I think, yes.’
‘Demonstration?’
‘We cannot just retire with our tail between our legs, Mr Burns, without showing Johnny Crapaud our mettle. I daresay Dundas and Stuart will be satisfied to subdue that redoubt before us. It hardly serves to my mind.’
‘What would satisfy you, Mr Driffield?’
‘Why, Mr Burns, that you and I show them what our service is made of by beating our weapons on their city walls. Rest assured, if they do decide to attack those guns, you and I will be well to the fore. The navy will take a cannon this day or we will expire in the effort, so get yourself two primed pistols and a sharp blade, while I get my marines ready.’
‘And the sailors, sir?’
‘No tars, this is a task for Lobsters.’ Driffield grinned then. ‘And, of course, midshipmen of the right stripe.’
Much time was taken up getting the British artillery into position and firing, seeking to subdue the enemy by destroying their outworks, with the obvious concomitant that they were within range of counter battery fire. It was a damned dangerous place to be but Toby Burns had no choice and it was just as well, given his ignorance, he had no need to issue orders regarding range and powder – the gunner’s mate sent along saw to that – for, quite apart from his lack of knowledge, he would not have trusted his voice to emerge as anything other than a squeak. Driffield, on the other naval cannon, could not shut up, issuing a constant stream of bellowed encouragement to, ‘Give them hell, lads,’ and, ‘Let us see the true colour of their damned claret.’
Meanwhile the assault parties were forming up, half the available force, officers dressing lines so that their men would not disgrace them by risking their lives in an untidy fashion. Then came the moment Toby dreaded most, when Driffield called to him, gleefully ordering his own men, who had been working their cannon in shirtsleeves, to don their red coats, gather their muskets, fix bayonets and take a heavy tot of the soldier’s rum to still their gut. On the marine officer’s heels, Toby, the taste of that rum still burning in his throat, was close enough to the major leading the assault to hear the idiot marine thanking him for the chance to face a glorious death.
As the drum started beating, the youngster had to work hard to keep his bowels from issuing an involuntary evacuation,
but the terror of exposure had him marching forward as the command was given. They passed the mouth of the naval cannon to a last salvo, followed by loud cheers, with the grinning faces of the tars full of encouragement. For the first time in his naval career, the midshipman issued a command that was stern enough to be immediately obeyed.
‘Belay that damned noise.’
‘Do not castigate them for encouragement, Mr Burns,’ Driffield called, ‘for it is only engendered by jealousy. They, I am sure, would wish to be alongside us.’
The first French ball scythed into the centre of the long, thin line of redcoats and took with it two bullocks, the ranks closing up automatically to fill the space, the eyes of the men Toby Burns could see, staring straight ahead, fixed upon their object, with he wondering how they could act so and ignore the bloody corpses of their fallen mates.
‘Grape soon,’ Driffield said, out of the side of his mouth, as if he was about to be in receipt of a surprise and welcome gift. ‘We will charge after the first salvo, I’ll wager.’
That grapeshot came as if ordered, the tiny steel balls cracking as they passed Toby’s ears. His first thought was to fall to the ground as if wounded, but having already employed that bit of subterfuge in a similar attack on the heights of Toulon he had severe doubts as to it serving a second time. In one hand he had a loaded pistol, in the other a raised sword heavy enough to make his young arm ache, and all his thoughts were on how to employ those weapons on himself, not the enemy. Yet, if he was afraid of the pain of a wound inflicted by others, he was even more fearful of one made by his own hand.
He had, he knew, begun to cry, the tears streaming down his face, his mind in a turmoil of thoughts and emotions, saved from discovery by the sudden command to charge, which allowed him to be dilatory and let those alongside him get slightly ahead. By sidestepping he got himself behind two bulky fellows – soldiers or marines it made no odds, they were taller than he and that sufficed: if a ball came his way they would take it first. Thankfully Driffield had lost all interest in his hero midshipman, his own lust for glory consuming his being. He was yelling and waving his sword like a banshee, and right before him lay the damaged earthworks of the enemy redoubt, still firing grape, as well as supporting musket fire.
Which one of those weapons took him in the chest mattered little: he stopped as if struck by a plank of wood, his body going rigid and seeming to rise from the ground, his weapons in the air as if he was aiming them at the heavens, his black tricorn hat flying backwards and off his head. Then he crumpled, collapsing not falling, first to his knees and then sideways to the ground. Toby Burns was beside him, kneeling, glad of the chance to stop going forward, looking into the still-open eyes.
‘Do not attend to me, Mr Burns,’ he gasped. ‘Lead my Lobsters to victory.’
It was a relief to Toby Burns that Driffield’s eyes closed then, that a stream of bright red froth burst between his lips, accompanied by a deep groan. With the man down, Toby did not have to go any further forward and from his kneeling position he could see that the redcoats were atop the earthwork, taking aim with muskets at what must be a fleeing enemy. He had survived!
The counterstroke was not long in coming. No sooner had the defenders abandoned the redoubt than those who had taken it were in receipt of musketry from their inland flank, a party of French infantry firing from the deep scrub and woods above them, those crowing their victory on the crown of the embankment taking the most punishment, with Colonel Stuart, who had led the attack, calling to them urgently to get down. From being a defensive position that had protected the French it now became one behind which the redcoats cowered, with Stuart, foolishly exposed, spyglass to his eye, seeking to assess what threat they faced, which given the swing of that tiny telescope, seemed to be coming from more than one direction. Toby, having run for that same shelter, was right by his legs as he spoke.
‘Humbugged, by damn.’ Then the movement at his feet caught his eye, and he barked, ‘Stand up, sir, do not let the men you lead see you cower.’
‘Mr Driffield is dead, sir,’ Toby protested, as a knot of other officers joined their colonel.
‘All the more reason for you to appear unconcerned, lad.’
He had no choice but to comply, not least because what officers remained had come to join their colonel. Faint over the ground behind him, Toby could hear shouted commands. A glance backwards showed the remainder of the British force forming up, their lines being dressed once more for tidiness. He could also see the guns being levered round to take a new aim.
‘They are coming to our rescue, sir,’ he cried.
‘Damn me, I hope not,’ Charles Stuart said, with a wry grin, as several musket balls cracked over Toby’s head and by the ears of the gathered officers. ‘But they will cover us as we seek to retire. Mr Burns, I know you to be a brave lad, Mr Driffield told me, so get your Lobsters formed up and ensure they have their muskets loaded. I am in no doubt you are aware of what is required, but I will tell you anyway. They must follow my orders as to when to deliver a volley and then retire at a walk so they can reload on the move. I anticipate the French will pursue, so I will require them to stop on my command and fire again, then repeat the manoeuvre.’
‘Sir.’
‘See to it, lad, we are short on time. Gentlemen, to your places.’
Approaching the marine party Toby was aware that it was not only Driffield’s body lying out in the open: from a detachment of twenty, they were down to fourteen. It was an absurd thought to have at such a time, as he counted their number, to see there was one for every year of his age. With a tremulous note in his voice he issued his orders to a corporal, who looked as if he understood, though there was a definite scowl attached to his acknowledgement for having to take instruction from such a nipper.
‘Follow Colonel Stuart in all things. I will issue no more commands.’
‘Praise be,’ came a growling voice from behind the corporal, who issued a weary, insincere reprimand.
The British cannon opened up and that was the signal for which Stuart had been waiting. In a parade-ground voice he ordered his men to form up, his next command as they complied to give the French a volley. Then they spun and began to walk with their backs exposed to enemy musketry, each man holding his weapon as he first cleaned it, tore open a charge, poured powder down the barrel, followed by a rammed-in ball, the last act being the priming of the pan, then the response: stopping, turning, aiming and firing as ordered, then continuing the orderly retreat. It would have been admirable to see it if Toby Burns had looked, a demonstration of the tight discipline and training of the British redcoat; he was not watching, he had his eyes firmly on the ground before his feet, his shoulders hunched for what he knew was coming.
The searing feeling in his arm was not pain, more like that which you feel when inadvertently touching a very hot griddle, but a look to the side showed his blue coat ripped and the first sign of blood beginning to emerge through his equally damaged shirt. He fell to his knees, part in shock, part in the thought that he would be less of a target, with the notion of being taken prisoner suddenly attracting him.
‘On your feet, Mr Burns,’ Stuart called over the sound of both cannon and musket fire, ‘lest you favour the notion of a French bayonet in your vitals, for they will not take captives, I’ll wager.’
Toby Burns was up and running in a flash, getting ahead of the line until another shout slowed him.
The whole body of British forces, once reunited, effected an untidy disengagement, guns being hauled away ahead of the infantry, until they were on the route back up to the Pass of Teghime, one so narrow the French declined to enter in pursuit. A hastily bandaged midshipman was with them, head held high now, feeling for once like a true hero, issuing, much to the annoyance of his toiling tars and very likely the struggling oxen as well, brusque orders which did nothing to aid the task of getting those heavy cannon up the steep hill.
CHAPTER FOUR
Pearce had entertained
Winston regarding his sojourn in Paris, before going on to describe serving under Ralph Barclay, and that had naturally led on to the story of his adventures in Brittany, which then required him to recount the events of the second impressment at sea of him and his friends thanks to the supine nature of Toby Burns, this over a tankard of ale it was his turn to provide. Winston was a good listener, rarely interrupting unless he required clarification, but he did enquire what it was like to be flogged.
‘Not, sir, that I am a stranger to punishment, given I was a pupil at Eton, where the masters were hearty with the birch. One, I admit before my time, flogged forty boys in one day, which given the strain on the swinging arm, is prodigious.’
‘It is said to make a good man bad and a bad man worse, so what it does to mere boys I cannot imagine.’
‘But would it not also be true to say that in certain settings, even a school, discipline is very necessary.’
‘Command is very necessary, sir, but I have had charge of a ship, albeit not a large vessel and for a very short period. A basilisk eye and a threat to stop grog will serve just as well as the lash, excepting, of course, the endemic hard bargain who might require to be stapled to the deck. But you must understand that flogging at sea is ritualistic in its execution, as much a demonstration of the power to punish as the actual act of punishment itself, so it is often not about chastisement but the glorification of the office of ship’s captain.’
Thinking back to what had happened to him, almost a piece of theatre in its undertones, John Pearce felt it necessary to add to his explanation. ‘Having said that, it is also the case that the crew of king’s ships tend to an appreciation of what constitutes fair play and have thus devised their own methods, as long as they are not dealing with an outright martinet, of mitigating the actual pain inflicted.’
‘Mr Pearce, you have been most forthcoming and damned entertaining, and no man could question you have had an interesting life, but you mention you held a command, so you must tell me how you came by, in such a short service at sea, that blue coat.’
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