A Flag of Truce Page 15

  ‘They come on,’ Digby said, before turning to address the crew. ‘It seems, lads, we have a scrap on our hands. What say you to that?’ They cheered as hard as their lungs would allow, and when that died away, Digby added. ‘You know, if I heard that I would put up my helm and run for safety.’

  The blast from the reply reached them before the balls that were fired, and Faron was treated to a show of plumed water herself, but a good cable’s length ahead of her bowsprit: neither elevation or wind favoured the enemy.

  ‘Thank you, my friend,’ Digby said to himself, ‘for gifting me your ultimate range.’ Louder he called, ‘Mr Neame, stand by to bring us round again, but this time hard on to the starboard tack. Mr Pearce, all cannon to remain at maximum elevation, but I want the second broadside to be double shotted. These fellows need to be surprised.’

  ‘Will they not reply in kind, sir?’

  ‘I hope so, Mr Pearce, for if they do the recoil will probably sink them.’

  ‘Now there,’ said leathery old Latimer to his best mate, Blubber Booth, ‘is a Johnny that knows his game.’

  ‘Reckon there’s any coin in this, Lats?’

  ‘Not a bean, Blubber, not a bean.’

  Overhearing that, Pearce was made acutely aware of the fact that he did not know his game. Faced with the same dilemma as Digby he would not have been sure what to do, and he only had to look at his senior to feel that he did. Mind, he reassured himself, there was no guarantee that his captain was in the right, but he had the appearance of knowing and an air of confidence that every man in the crew could observe, so Pearce moved from his position amidships and went to talk to him. Quietly, so that no one else could hear him, he addressed his captain, only to be just as quietly admonished.

  ‘You have left your station, Mr Pearce.’

  ‘I am curious, sir, as to what you intend.’

  ‘Intend? Why to sink those fellows ahead of us or persuade them to turn tail.’

  ‘May I be allowed to enquire how?’ Seeing Digby stiffen, he added, ‘I ask only for the purposes of wishing to learn, sir, and I am not so far from my station that half a dozen paces will not get me back to it.’

  Considering that took several seconds, but Digby obliged eventually. ‘Whoever commands those boats appears to be a fool, Mr Pearce, or he is no sailor. You will observe he is coming on grouped.’

  ‘And that is wrong?’

  ‘Gunboats on sweeps may move as they wish and ignore the wind. Thus they should split up and stand off a square rigger like us and use their power of manoeuvre to split our defence, get close, aim guns for the waterline, and try to hole us, then haul off hard to reload. The last thing he should want is to face a row of cannon, firing off a steady deck, at such a tempting target as four grouped boats.’

  ‘You’ve seen this before?’

  ‘Heard about it, for it is a nightmare to ships on blockade. The man in command yonder thinks that his guns close grouped have more effect, when the opposite is the truth. I think, in about a minute, we may shock him out of his misplaced complacency.’

  ‘If they split up, sir, would you not be obliged to select one to attack?’

  Digby smiled, but did not look at his subordinate. ‘I would.’

  ‘And the fate of that boat?’

  ‘Total destruction, very likely, in the process of allowing his consorts to strike.’

  ‘So, perhaps, the man in command knows what to do, but has failed to get one of his subordinates to act as a sacrificial lamb?’

  ‘Very possible, Mr Pearce, which tends to imply he might lead them but he does not command them, a direct result I would say of the revolutionary ideas. Now please be so good as to go back to your station.’

  Pearce obliged, and within a minute Digby shouted. ‘Mr Neame, stand by to bring us up into the wind. Mr Pearce, fire as you bear.’

  ‘Deck there,’ Martin Dent yelled. ‘French seventy-fours have put up their helms to close with us.’

  ‘That I anticipated, lads,’ Digby called out, ‘pay it no heed. Now, Mr Neame.’

  The rudder swung hard, as the sheets were let fly and Faron swung round in her own length with the wind slowing and steadying her. This time it was left to the gun captains, each crouched to peer through their gunport straight along the length of their piece, calculating the point at which to haul on that lanyard, a few heartbeats before the gun actually sighted on the target. The timbers shook as each gun went off, and though they could not see it, below, Lutyens instruments were flung from his sea chests to the deck by the vibrations. It was obvious that the enemy had just been waiting for the sight of smoke and all four of their cannon spoke simultaneously. But Digby had the better plan; their balls fell short, close enough to soak the decks but not enough to do harm. The balls from Faron, firing from that slightly higher elevation landed right amongst them, smashing two, one on the bows, another on its starboard timbers.

  The first to be struck shuddered in the water as if a great hand had stopped its progress, the second fell away as the weight of the shot, and a man steering who lost his grip, took its bow on into a third boat, forcing it to sheer off. Just then, the first of the double shotted balls landed amongst them, bringing on chaos as some of the sweeps disintegrated.

  ‘Mr Neame,’ Digby commanded, in that same calm voice, ‘get me back on course to close. Mr Pearce, the carronade will, I think, shortly come into its own.’

  The one remaining fighting vessel was not done, and now that the range was closing it sent a ball flying up through the scantlings to the deck of Faron which caused splinters to fly in a dozen directions, the screams proving that it had been telling. Digby ordered the two bow chasers to respond, nodding at the way Neame used the rudder to ensure that each in turn could take good aim. They did not strike wood or flesh, but the amount of seawater that soaked their enemies must have been off-putting. That was confirmed by a wild shot in response that went through the rigging without doing much more than split a couple of ropes. The range had closed, and was now down to musket shot.

  ‘Mr Pearce, as soon as she bears.’

  Pearce was behind the carronade himself, lanyard in hand, this being a weapon he had come to respect. The ball, thirty-two pounds, would wound a capital ship, even a hundred-gunner if fired at close enough range. What it would do to a flimsy vessel that was in reality a fishing smack of the Mediterranean kind did not bear thinking about. As it bore just to the right of the target he pulled. The cannon, on runners instead of rope restraints, shot backwards onto its stops. It did not hit the enemy, not being a weapon for accuracy but effect, yet the amount of water it shifted told that last lugger what it faced, and as soon as the water which had obscured the vessel fell back, they could see the man in command had ordered his helm put down, his sweeps brought in and his single sail in the act of being raised, leaving his companions either sinking or fighting to stay afloat.

  ‘That, sir,’ said Digby, ‘is the first wise thing you’ve done this day. Mr Neame, put us about and close with Apollon. It seems we may have to go aboard and rescue this fellow Moreau. Mr Pearce, make up a boarding party, muskets to clear a way, cutlasses and pistols to follow. We will be going in through the wardroom and we must risk the innocents. Anyone who seeks to impede you is to be killed on the spot.’

  ‘Sir.’

  As HMS Faron came about, Pearce could see the quartet of French seventy-fours spread across the ocean, still coming on, despite the fact that those sent to take them were either foundering or fleeing.

  ‘No mercy, Mr Pearce, we do not have time for that, for I fear we may have to subdue each vessel in turn if we show any leniency.’

  ‘Do we arm them, sir.’

  ‘No need now, Mr Pearce. The troublemakers have revealed themselves. Once we get aboard and have re-established proper command, we will put them in irons and keep them below.’

  Digby took charge of the one cannon he was going to use himself, ordering Neame to bring the ship under the stern of Apollon, which the
y sailed past in utter silence, with not a head peering over the hammock nettings to see what was promised. They had no means to retaliate, or to avoid what was coming, as Digby had Faron steered until she lay under Apollon’s rudder. As soon as Neame backed the sails he pulled the lanyard and sent a single cannonball smashing up through the flimsy casement windows and on to blast what wardroom bulkheads had been rigged. The sound of smashing glass and shredded timber had hardly faded when Digby said, in the same voice, devoid of emotion, which he had used throughout. ‘At your own convenience, Mr Pearce.’

  The man he addressed did not feel calm; his heart was pounding and he did not know if it was from excitement or trepidation.

  ‘Come on, lads,’ Pearce shouted, his sword waving in his hand as he jumped up onto the bulwarks of his own ship, which brought him level with the destroyed wardroom casements. That sword had to be used like a cleaver to get the splintered wood and glass apart enough for him to clamber through. Expecting a fight, he was surprised to see no one on the other side, and so he fetched aboard his muskets. They debouched on to the crowded maindeck through shattered bulkheads, more crowded now than before by the way the crew was pressed back in fear.

  ‘Take aim,’ Pearce said, himself raising his pistol, feeling sorry for those to the front of the crowd, trying to shrink their bodies from what was obviously coming. Then he said, in French. ‘If someone does not fetch me Captain Moreau, this instant, I will open fire.’

  As a group of messengers rushed off, he shouted, ‘And bring to me that damned tricolour from the mizzen.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  With order restored, and the most radical of the Toulon sailors confined in their respective cable tiers, the rest of the voyage was set to be peaceful. Entreprenant, Patriote and Orion had all surrendered without the need to board and the flags at the masthead were once more flower-patterned ensigns. They spoke with a couple of frigates heading to join the fleet, but it was an exchange through a speaking trumpet only; they were eager to get to the seat of action, and Digby feared to lose touch with his charges. He dreaded the notion of being out of sight if they came across a Spanish warship. The Dons knew the lines of every vessel in the French fleet and they might see those Bourbon ensigns as a bluff and begin firing without establishing that the ships of their enemy had passports issued by Lord Hood.

  Such easy sailing left ample time for Digby and John Pearce to get to know one another, and mutual respect, already established, quickly deepened, though that could not be said about their politics or their religion. Digby loved his king and his Anglican God; Pearce had an abhorrence of monarchy and, like his father, saw religion as a conspiracy to cheat the gullible, which meant that it was most often a subject avoided. Their first bout, over one dinner, on that, had been quite enough.

  ‘Have you heard of Liebnitz, sir?’ asked Pearce.

  ‘Who?’

  He liked Digby, but he could see that he was a typical parochial Englishman: for him any kind of sense ceased at Dover. It was not malice that had him discount influence from abroad, just an upbringing which had been confined first to a mile or two from his home, a Dorset tenanted farm, followed by poor schooling, a midshipman’s berth and a naval wardroom. His views were formed by the invisible walls of the world into which he had been born and inhabited.

  ‘He is a philosopher.’

  ‘Not a breed, Pearce, for whom I have much time. They seem to exist to disturb men’s minds.’

  ‘I think this fellow you would like. He maintained that everything that happened was the work of God.’

  ‘In which he was entirely correct.’

  ‘Even wars, famine, catastrophe?’

  ‘I know what you are about, Pearce, but you will not undermine my faith with such mutterings.’

  ‘Nor those of Liebnitz. He insisted such things were all part of God’s great plan for the world, a notion that Voltaire quite exploded.’

  ‘That rascal!’ Digby snapped. ‘There is a man who should have had a mouth restraint fitted at birth.’

  ‘You have read him?’

  ‘Certainly not. I have no notion to make diseased my mind.’

  ‘Then does the name Hume mean anything.’

  ‘Another philosopher I gather. At least he was an Englishman.’

  ‘He was actually a Scot. My father studied with him.’

  ‘I suppose you will use him to sustain your nonsensical opinions?’

  ‘I shall put it to you and see, in only one of his propositions. The notion that if there was a Supreme Being for people to believe in, there was no need to extend to that entity the gift of supreme competence. It might be that such a God created the world in the aforesaid six days, in itself a remarkable feat, but surely to populate it with a contentious crew like the human race was not a clever idea.’

  ‘God does not need to be clever.’

  ‘Would that be because he has us to be so on his behalf?’

  Digby reared up at that, seeing quite clearly that Pearce was baiting him. To the senior, such a debate was unheard of; he could not know how often Pearce had engaged with others to raise the question of an all-seeing deity, which was only one tenth of the times he had heard his father engage in the same debate.

  ‘The only thing that can be said for religion, sir, is that it makes some men charitable, yet it has served as a refuge for a whole raft of scoundrels. We are approaching Spanish territory, are we not? Home to the Inquisition, where a lack of belief, even a question of doctrine, will result in a horrible death.’

  ‘Papists, Pearce, who are backward in their thinking.’

  ‘And the Musselmen to the south of us, who have the Prophet?’

  ‘Misguided, but at least we share a God.’

  ‘Travellers from the East talk of other religions. Can they all be right?’

  That was when Digby killed off the discussion. ‘I know I am right, Pearce, and I do not appreciate your attempts to get me to think otherwise. And I must tell you, for you obviously do not know, it is a tradition in the service to leave ashore notions of religion and politics. Nothing is so likely to split a wardroom as those two subjects. The effect of disagreement is pernicious, and although we are but two commissioned officers of this ship, I would see the same rule apply. Also, I would point out, sir, that the very ships we are tasked to escort have been brought to their sorry pass by the very kind of questions you pose.’

  Pearce was tempted then to recount some of his experiences, of people learned, rich and sometimes both who paid lip service only to their religion, so as to keep in place those over whom they held power. He had seen it in the great houses of his own nation, but more so in the salons of Paris, where the men who had brought about the end of absolute monarchy had also brought to book the excesses of the church. Yet no Englishman, who would condemn an Archbishop of France for his venery and his open flaunting of his mistresses, would even begin to think it odd that the incumbent of the See of Canterbury needed an income of twenty-five thousand pounds to carry out an office that, if the words of Jesus Christ were to be taken literally, should be based on humility and personal sacrifice.

  ‘Another glass of wine, sir,’ Pearce said, knowing that such a thing was best left unsaid.

  ‘Another glass of wine, Captain Barclay?’ said Lieutenant Pigot, filling his own cup as he did so. All around them HMS Britannia was creaking and groaning, the timbers working and occasionally issuing a crack as it rode the swell.

  Ralph Barclay was wondering, given Pigot’s consumption, if he would have a clear enough head for what was coming in the morning, but felt it would be unwise to say anything. It was galling to be in need of such a fellow, and he could not but wonder why Hotham held him in such esteem, if you took out of the equation his inclination to flog.

  ‘I think I had best keep a clear head for the morrow, Mr Pigot.’

  ‘I generally has a bit of a fuzz most mornings, sir, but I find it soon goes once I have o’erseen the cleaning of the decks. Nothing like the
wielding of a starter on a bare back to get the head clear.’

  ‘You do not leave such tasks to your junior lieutenants?’

  ‘Never, sir. As Premier I bear responsibility, and if I am going to face the wrath of my captain for a poorly swabbed deck, then I am going to make sure he who troubles my life does more’n trouble his own.’

  Thank God I only have one night with this fellow, Ralph Barclay thought.

  Pigot was a difficult man with whom to make conversation, he having so few topics that interested him, and he did not seem to appreciate, as would every naval officer Ralph Barclay had ever encountered, being told of the actions of others. Any attempt to recount his encounters with enemy vessels met with a frown.

  ‘You know, Mr Pigot, I think I may retire.’

  Pigot picked up the bottle. ‘Why this, sir, it is as yet half full.’

  ‘I am sure you can see to that, Mr Pigot, but I lack your constitution in the article of drink.’

  For the first time Ralph Barclay sensed this choleric-looking fellow was pleased; the man actually thought he had been in receipt of praise. The Premier of the flagship had given up his own sleeping quarters to the accused, letting it be known that he entirely approved of the actions of the captain of HMS Brilliant, the general air in the entire wardroom, and Ralph Barclay appreciated such support from men who understood the problems attendant on manning a ship of war. They were not milksops like Pearce, but proper seamen who knew their trade. Having disrobed, washed and said his prayers, he slipped into the swinging cot that would be his bed, but sleep would not come, even with the ship rocking and snubbing her anchors.

  As in all such situations his mind flitted from memory to idea and back again, all the way to his life as a midshipman, which had been damned unpleasant, though not much worse than what had preceded it; a trader father who drank like Pigot and was free with his belt, a mother too much in terror of her husband to intervene; indeed a woman who many a morning bore the marks of a previous night’s beating. Servants of no refinement whatever who spied on everything and gossiped, so the whole town knew if the Barclays were in hock to their fellow-tradesmen or flush when some local aristocrat finally paid a bill.