Immediately Madame Bourdage released such a flood of tears and began kissing his hands. ‘Oh, monsieur, monsieur,’ she repeated over and over. Her daughter rose up from her chair, and grasping his right hand, began doing the same.
‘Merci, monsieur,’ she said with feeling. ‘Merci beaucoup.’
When the two women had mastered themselves, Hayden asked, ‘The little girl… the one who collided with me on the deck. Who was she?’
‘The daughter of Monsieur and Madame Mercier,’ Héloise informed him in French.
‘Have they money to take them to England?’
Mother and daughter looked at each other, and shrugged.
‘I cannot say for certain,’ replied Madame Bourdage, ‘but it is possible.’
‘I will inform Sir Gilbert that they are also related to my mother… and to you, if you don’t object.’
‘No, of course not.’ She realized, at last, what Hayden intended. ‘We will see them to England, Captain Hayden – somehow. Though they are five altogether. We will find a way.’
Hayden escorted the women onto the deck and to the rail, where a bosun’s chair had been rigged to return them to their boat. All the while ‘thank you, thank you’ rained down upon him, and he saw them off with a feeling that he had never told a lie in so good a cause. Afterwards, Hayden went to his cot with a warm glow in his heart and feeling rather proud of himself, which he realized he did not feel nearly often enough in this wretched, soul-destroying war.
Fourteen
From the sea, Corsica appeared fair and green, the crests of her mountains dusted with snow that reflected coral and gold from the dawn sky. The frigate Lowestoff e carried a fair wind towards the island’s northern shore, and Hayden stood alone at the rail, a strange emptiness in his stomach. Were it a time of peace, this island would look idyllic, even romantic, against the morning sky, but today it appeared enigmatic at best; menacing if one dwelt upon the morbid possibilities.
‘So what think you, Captain Hayden?’
It was Moore appearing at his side, crimson jacket not out of place against the morning sky.
‘I was not expecting snow.’
‘I am told it is only on the tallest peaks of the inner mountains. It should be no concern to us.’
‘That is some relief.’
‘You have been pondering the charts and maps?’
Hayden nodded. ‘As we need an anchorage to land your troops, it would appear that San Fiorenzo will answer in that regard. The western shore of the bay has been invested with cannon and is fortified, but once the French have been driven thence, I believe the citadel on the eastern shore will capitulate, after a hasty display of resistance.’
Moore nodded his agreement. ‘Yes, Bastia and Calvi shall prove the more difficult shells to break, but San Fiorenzo will take a co-ordinated effort of both army and Navy.’ He hesitated a second. ‘Do you think our superiors will be able to make common cause or will this matter go the way of many another where both our services have been engaged?’
The lieutenant-colonel had not attempted to affix blame for such difficulties, which Hayden approved.
‘At least let us hope that we might make common cause, Moore, without bickering and thwarting one another’s efforts,’ Hayden offered.
‘Yes, by all means. Let us attempt that, Hayden.’ Moore turned to face him. ‘It is of the greatest consequence not to make enemies of one’s friends.’
‘Then let us shake hands on it,’ Hayden suggested, and they did, most heartily.
‘Did I say that my brother, Graham, is a Navy man?’ Moore asked.
‘You did not. Graham Moore?’
Moore regarded him with a little surprise. ‘Yes.’
‘I am quite certain we met – in Halifax, some years ago. I believe he told me he had a brother named Jack.’
Moore laughed. ‘So I am known in my family. The service is both great and small, is it not?’
‘So it is.’ This explained a great deal – a brother in the Navy. Hayden felt his small distrust of the man evaporate, as though they were almost brothers themselves.
The captain’s barge rocked over the small swell, the bottom visible through glassy clear waters. Rozza island, actually a peninsula, lay between the French positions at Calvi and the Bay of San Fiorenzo. It was understood to be under the control of General Paoli. Both Moore and Hayden hoped this would prove true for it seemed possible that the old general was misrepresenting how much of the island he controlled so that driving out the French would appear to be an easier task than it actually was. Certainly, without British aid in the form of guns, powder and soldiers he would never manage it.
The shore was a patchwork of eroded cliffs, extending rocky shoals and sandy beaches. These beaches, and the mouths of the occasional small stream, would make ideal landing places but some of the low shoals of monolithic stone would do if the sea were calm. Tides in the Mediterranean were so small as to be unmeasurable, which simplified matters considerably. How many times had he heard of armies asking to be put ashore at some propitious time only to have their plans thwarted by inconsiderate tides?
The boat rounded a rocky point, and a small bay opened before them – their chosen landing spot. Hayden could see a crowd gathered on the shore, but the distance hid all details.
‘Wickham, have you your glass to hand?’
‘I am sorry, sir,’ the boy replied, ‘but I have it packed away.’
Moore, Sir Gilbert, Major Kochler, Hayden and Wickham took passage in the barge, and though Hayden was certain everyone, including Sir Gilbert, possessed a glass, no one had thought to leave one accessible – a situation almost more amusing than embarrassing.
‘And we call ourselves professional soldiers,’ Moore said, and shook his head, smiling.
Oars dipped into the limpid sea, then emerged to make dripping arcs through the air, little rings forming between the larger swirls. Between each oar-driven surge, the barge slipped forward gently, surged, then slipped.
Wickham rose suddenly to gaze intently at the shore. ‘Sir… these men appear to be dressed in the French national uniform.’
‘Are you certain?’ Hayden stood, as well, but his eye was not so keen as Wickham’s and no one else could tell, either.
Kochler tossed some baggage aside and, in a moment, dug out his glass, which he fixed on the shore. Hayden guessed he was not a man given to harsh language but a mild blasphemy escaped him and the glass was passed to Moore and then to Sir Gilbert, who both confirmed that Wickham had been right. Before Sir Gilbert could offer it to Hayden, Kochler requested its return.
Men, similarly dressed, began to appear along the cliff to their right, much to everyone’s distress, for the these men bore muskets.
‘But we were to meet Paoli’s representative here…’ Sir Gilbert protested with great indignation.
‘There is nothing for it now,’ Moore replied with remarkable equanimity. ‘If we turn about they will have us.’
As retreat was impossible, there were no dissenting opinions.
Wickham looked anxiously at Hayden, as though his French heritage might allow him to intercede on their behalf.
‘What will they do with us, do you think?’ Wickham asked quietly.
‘The French are not a savage people. They will not mistreat us.’ And though Hayden believed that this was quite likely true, the thought of being held prisoner for months, or even years, filled him with a barely containable frustration. That he should finally have found a superior officer who seemed prepared to believe in his abilities and then that he should almost immediately land in a French prison was unbearable.
The Englishmen remained silent as the boat approached the beach. Hayden watched the party ashore for any evidence of their intentions but they showed signs of neither hostility nor welcome. Their utter neutrality was most madding. Moore glanced his way, no doubt thinking similar thoughts.
As they neared the beach, Hayden clambered forward through the oarsmen to the bow,
hoping this act would not be interpreted as a threat, but the men gathered ashore did not seem to care one way or the other. As the boat ran up on the sand, and Hayden stepped over the gunnel and into ankle-deep water, one of the men raised his musket, fired it at the sky and called out, ‘Viva Paoli, la patria e la nazione inglese!’ Around him others echoed his act and words, filling the still air with acrid smoke.
Hayden turned back to Sir Gilbert and the others, who almost to a man breathed a great sigh of relief. Sir Gilbert released his hold on the gunnel and surreptitiously flexed cramped fingers.
The Corsicans came forward, then, and aided the sailors in dragging the boat up the beach a few feet so that Sir Gilbert and the others could disembark on dry sand. Suddenly, the previously dour Corsicans were all animation, smiling and speaking at once. Muskets were fired in the air and decidedly British ‘Huzza!’s shouted. Immediately the Englishmen’s baggage was carried ashore and taken up by the inhabitants, who would allow no one to aid them.
Il Signor Leonati, the Englishmen were informed, was already on his way to meet them.
‘Who is Signor Leonati?’ Hayden enquired, pleased to find that his Italian was readily understood and that he comprehended most of what was said to him, if he could but convince the speaker to slow down a little.
‘The nephew of the general,’ he was informed. ‘General Paoli.’
‘And where is the general?’ Sir Gilbert asked, his command of Italian equal to that of his French.
‘Not far,’ he was told. ‘Not so very far.’
Although General Paoli was ‘not so very far’ – and in English miles this was true – it took the remainder of the day, the day next, and half of a third day to reach him. The ruggedness of the countryside was unrelenting, and Hayden had the impression of a dusty, dry island, sparsely covered with hardy scrub and stunted trees, relieved only by deep valleys where rivulets greened the parched landscape in snaking narrow bands. Hayden wondered if there were a place on the entire island where rock did not thrust up through the ground. But when he asked this of Sir Gilbert he was surprised by the answer.
‘There lies, on the eastern shore, a coastal plain that is very fertile. And high in the mountains you will find areas where the ground is moist and covered by ferns beneath very tall, straight pines. It is a more varied landscape then our small view of it reveals.’
As they travelled, snakes darted out of the bush and, just as quickly, slithered off, but the local men assured the visitors that these serpents were not venomous; indeed, they hardly paid them any heed. Even more numerous than snakes were salamanders, not the length of a man’s hand, which sunned themselves on sheltered, rocky shelves – soon to be victims of the serpents, Hayden suspected.
At one point Wickham asked Hayden, ‘Why are these people dressed as Frenchmen?’ and Hayden, in turn, asked this of the nearest Corsican.
‘Ah,’ Hayden responded when the explanation was made. ‘Most of the people wore the French national uniform while the French were in control of the island, and out of economy continue to do so, though it is not the best economy, I am informed, for several men have been mistaken for Frenchmen and shot during skirmishes.’
‘Are the French yet abroad?’ Wickham wondered. ‘I was informed that they were shut up in their few strongholds along the coast.’
Moore, overhearing this, answered the midshipman quietly in English. ‘So we have been told, Mr Wickham. Whether it is strictly true…’ He shrugged.
Hayden did note that as they travelled, parties were constantly sent ahead and often reported back. Small companies occupied the heights nearby, and the visitors were led along paths that wound along the valley floors. Very infrequently did they find themselves in exposed positions, upon hillsides or ridge-tops, and when they did, the Corsicans hurried them along.
Hayden was concerned that the countryside might prove too difficult for Sir Gilbert Elliot, who appeared to be at least two decades older than the military men, but this worry was soon put away. Sir Gilbert’s claim that he walked often and far was certainly true. Rather like John Moore, the diplomat’s manner was very refined, his understanding great. As they walked he gave the plants their names, both Latinate and common, and plucked leaves here or there to examine and to show his companions.
‘See! Juniperus oxycedrus.’ He bruised a leaf with his fingers and insisted the others inhale the scent. ‘And here is myrtle,’ he observed, plucking a leaf to show them. ‘The French tower on the bay of San Fiorenzo sits on Mortella point, which is to say, “Myrtle Point”.’
If Sir Gilbert had a flaw to his impressive character it was that he felt his understanding was superior to that of other men, though this was carefully veiled behind excellent manners and a cultivated modesty.
On their third day on the island, the convent of Recollets, abandoned since the revolution, was reached shortly after midday. Walls, manned by armed Corsicans in numbers, loomed out of the trees, and the moment these men perceived the Englishmen and their escorts they all cheered most heartily. This was the largest building Hayden had yet seen on the island, old but in good repair despite falling into disuse a number of years earlier. Gladly, the visitors gave up their mules to eager boys, who, with their dark clear eyes, stared openly at the visitors. Hayden suspected they had never seen an Englishman.
Wine and various fruits were offered for refreshment but as they were all anxious to meet Paoli it was decided that they should demur on this offer and go immediately to an audience with the general.
They were led up stairs through the old convent and into a small cell where Paoli sat by a window, book tilted towards the light. Immediately they entered, he rose, with some difficulty, to greet them most cordially. His English was good but softly accented, his once-powerful frame becoming frail. In both his voice and manner, there was about him an air of delicate sorrow, as though he were in mourning. Sir Gilbert had told them that the general had lost a well-loved brother a year previously, but somehow Hayden did not think that was the cause of his sadness. Paoli had dedicated his life to achieving independence for Corsica and his people, yet despite all that he had done, this freedom seemed as distant as ever it had.
‘Do you remember Lord Arthur Wickham?’ Sir Gilbert asked the general.
As the old man seemed perplexed, Wickham spoke up. ‘You once proposed to take me shooting in the mountains should I ever visit Corsica.’
Paoli laughed. ‘I fear I have grown too old to keep my promise but I will certainly arrange for some other to fulfil my obligations in this matter.’
The visitors were offered chairs and they and a few of Paoli’s followers crowded the small room, some leaning up against the plastered stone walls. A letter from Lord Hood was produced by Sir Gilbert and offered to the general, who appeared to regard it with suspicion or displeasure. The old man opened it with a small blade and read thoughtfully. For a moment he stared at the page, his face exhibiting mild consternation. With the page shivering faintly, he laid the letter on the small table that held his books and spectacles then turned his attention to Moore, Kochler and Hayden. Immediately he began to talk of the terrain and the kind of attack that he believed would succeed on the nearby fortifications.
At the first opportunity Moore interrupted him. ‘I must tell you, General Paoli, that Major Kochler, Captain Hayden and I are under Sir Gilbert, who is the king’s senior commissioner in the Mediterranean. Until you have had some previous conversation with Sir Gilbert we are unable to enter into a discussion of our mission.’
This did not please the general. ‘I have grown tired of ministers and negotiations,’ he declared, not hiding his disappointment and frustration. Asking first some people in the room to withdraw, he turned to Sir Gilbert. ‘It pains me to find in this letter that Lord Hood remains inexplicit and diffident of me. In affairs of this nature I have found that it is always best to be open and candid.’ Even as he said this his voice grew thick with emotion so that he spoke only with difficulty. ‘Long ago I wrot
e to your king and his ministers; I have also repeatedly written to Lord Hood that I and my people wished to be free, either as subjects of Great Britain, which I know does not want slaves, or free under the protection of Great Britain, as the king and the country may hereafter think most convenient to adopt. Having said this I do not know what else I might say. Why, therefore, does his Lordship tease me with more negotiations? Has he not already injured me sufficiently with promises of succour which he has always withheld? If it is meant to include mes compatriotes in any arrangement which may hereafter be made with the Bourbons, I can have no hand in it. I shall retire. All I wish, is to see, before I die, my country settled and happy after struggles that have lasted three hundred years. Under the protection or government of the British nation, I believe my countrymen will enjoy a proper degree of liberty. I have told them so, and they have such confidence in me that they believe me and wish to make the experiment.’
No one had dared to interrupt the general as he spoke, even if some of his expressions with regard to Lord Hood were less than polite. Clearly he felt himself wronged, but Hayden guessed the general’s desire for peace for his people was obviously so great that emotion made his words intemperate.
‘My dear General,’ Sir Gilbert began, ‘I am sure that it was never the intention of Lord Hood to take even the smallest advantage of you or your people. I have been sent, and it is to this end that Lord Hood has written, to discover if there is any method, by assembling the states or otherwise, of receiving assent from the people for what you have so eloquently stated is their wish.’
This only seemed to aggrieve Paoli more. ‘How can this be done while the French are still present? They must first be expelled; then it is my intention to convene the states. Until such time I know what is their wish and can speak for them.’
This seemed a less than perfect solution to Sir Gilbert, or so Hayden thought from the sour look upon his face, but he threw up his hands. ‘Then we must first expel the French,’ he declared.
A Battle Won Page 29
