A Flag of Truce Page 19

  ‘Well, sir, what do you say. I have administered a blow. Are you going to run again, or is your plan this time to set a bunch of ruffians on me? Do so if you dare, I have my friends to aid me, and when all is ended I will still demand satisfaction.’

  Pearce was still restraining Michael, who, looking at the line of redcoat officers, hissed. ‘Let me be, John-boy, I’ll crease the lot of them.’

  That was when McGann stepped in front of both Michael and Pearce. ‘You, sir, I demand your name.’

  ‘And who, sir, are you?’

  ‘I am the author of this sorry affair, the man who, I am told, insulted your wife. It was to defend me that this fellow struck you a blow.’

  His crew must have told him; inebriated as he had been there was no way McGann could have remembered. ‘It matters not, the blow was struck. Satisfaction is required.’

  ‘Several blows have been struck, sir,’ McGann slurred, ‘but I am responsible. If you wish for satisfaction you must take it from me.’

  ‘Wait your turn, dwarf.’

  McGann, more steady than Pearce thought him capable of, walked straight up to the major and slapped his cheek.

  ‘I will not wait, sir, I will be first, and I ask you to name your weapon.’

  ‘Pistols!’ the major barked, then turned to another officer and named him as his second. Pearce saw, out of the corner of his eye, the crew of the Lorne nodding; was it relief?

  ‘Mr Pearce will be mine.’

  ‘Good. When I have seen to you he can be next. Until dawn tomorrow.’

  ‘Fernando,’ McGann shouted, as the major stomped away. ‘Our tankards are empty.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  They had to be up before dawn and with Digby sleeping ashore Pearce could leave the ship without having to explain his destination. He had with him the surgeon Lutyens, to see to the wounded, and a sword he fully intended to use – as the man struck he had the choice – because despite McGann’s protestations of the previous night, which he repeated ad nauseam, that he had no worries about this coming event, there was no way a man as drunk as he had been could face up, at the crack of dawn, to an opponent versed in the use of arms. Pearce intended to force him to step aside and it was therefore something of a shock to observe, when they met on the dockside, that the captain of the Lorne seemed to be in fine fettle.

  ‘I never suffer from the effect of drink of a mornin’, John, which I put down to a fine Irish constitution.’

  Introduced to Lutyens, they fell to discussing the seat of the heavy drinker’s problem, which was held to be the liver and gout afflicting the big toe, with the surgeon talking of the dissections he had performed on victims of everything from an excess of gin to the occasional cadaver fallen to the perils of over-indulgence in claret, his opinion that the former was ten times more insidious than the latter, owing to the low quality of the brew.

  ‘Though I have to say, Captain, that the gin drinker is the article more often to be found on the cutting table for another reason, they being more likely to suffer a pauper’s death than a man addicted to wine.’

  ‘The heart, sir, you must have seen the heart?’ demanded McGann, in an exercise in morbidity that Pearce found strange given where they were heading. ‘In that I do very much envy you.’

  ‘Sir, I have seen it in its working mode on more than one occasion, and it is, the first time you set eyes on it, the most amazing sight.’

  ‘Tell me more.’

  Given an audience Lutyens responded, and was soon explaining what he had seen of kidneys, muscles, genitals of both sexes, the route of bodily waste through the gut to the fundament, in such detail that Pearce dropped back to be out of earshot. He had not thought himself squeamish, but such a precise description of the human innards was not to be borne before a man had consumed a hearty breakfast. One cup of coffee was insufficient; it had left his stomach to rumble, a necessary condition, it being held inadvisable for a participator to eat before a duel.

  ‘Mr McGann seems in a jolly mood.’

  ‘Same as ever, our capt’n,’ replied the crewman McGann had fetched along. ‘He don’t change much, as you will have noted.’

  ‘Indeed I have,’ Pearce replied. McGann drank little or nothing at sea, saving his immoderation for the shore. He too had a happy ship, and like Henry Digby he was the cause, with a care for his crew that bordered on the fatherly; ever smiling, his orders always soft and supplicant, not harsh. ‘Yet I fear for him this day.’

  The man slapped his hand on the polished box he carried, which had to contain a pair of pistols. ‘I should fear for the man he slapped.’

  ‘That was surely unusual behaviour for the captain. I observed him drunk on our last meeting, but he showed no hint of a violent temperament.’

  The sailor just smiled, and there was no time to elicit any more information as, puffing from the steep climb, they reached an open space near the top of the Rock, chasing away the apes that occupied the heights. Looking east they saw that the sky was tinged with grey, and their ears told them the military party was approaching on horseback. Lutyens and McGann were still deep in conversation, and the sailor was rubbing one shoulder as though it was causing him some pain.

  Courtesy is the absolute requirement of duelling; whatever the offence waiting to be settled, everyone has to behave like a gentleman. Thus, polite greetings were exchanged by those not the principles, and introductions carried out, and Pearce received with grace the invitation from Major Lipton’s second that an apology be offered. This, despite Pearce’s pleading, McGann flatly refused to accept.

  ‘Then let me fight him first, with swords. I have trained with some of the finest fencing masters in Paris and if it smacks of showing away, I am good with a blade. I fancy that, soldier or no, I can best him in that department and if I can you will not have to contest your dispute with him at all.’

  McGann looked up at him with a belligerent expression. ‘If you are the John Pearce with whom I sailed not two months past, you would not be seeking to kill the fellow, regardless of his bellicosity.’

  ‘Of course not. I would seek a satisfactory wound. One that satisfied his honour and my own.’

  ‘And then what happens? This Lipton is stationed here, and I am a regular caller at the Rock, as my duty demands. I daresay he would wait till your wound healed and still demand that I meet him. Best then to get it over with now.’

  ‘You are determined then?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Then I hope your opponent has the same attitude you ascribe to me.’

  ‘Pearce, I bet you a breakfast that I will eat mine with my own hand, but yonder major will need to be spoon fed. Now please be so good as to ask if the fellow will examine my pistols, which if he has no objection, I would prefer to use.’

  That had Pearce consulting with Lipton’s second again. He looked at the army pistols, a rather scarred pair of ordinary weapons in a well-travelled box. McGann’s were as different as chalk and cheese, a beautiful pair of Lobey’s, with the fine inlay and beautiful craftsmanship for which the Dublin gunmaker was famous.

  ‘If you wish for accuracy and balance, sir,’ Lipton’s second said, as he held one in his hand. ‘I doubt ours would match the captain’s.’

  ‘Very well,’ growled the major, removing his coat. ‘One ball does as much damage as another.’

  ‘Then Mr Pearce and I will load them.’

  There was another officer along with the military party, in a heavy cloak which kept hidden his rank, and a low hat that did much to disguise his features, no name being given as he stepped forward and supervised the loading, this as a red sun hit the horizon.

  ‘We will wait till it is full up, gentlemen,’ he growled. ‘I would not have it implied that anyone lacked advantage from a want of light.’

  It only took minutes till the sun was a rising red/gold ball. With neither man facing the light they stood back to back in shirts and breeches only, this while Lutyens squatted by his medical case, taking out
various articles and laying them out ready for use and working on some bandages for the expected wound. From under his cloak, the unknown officer produced a pistol of his own, primed and loaded, the reason for his person remaining anonymous emphasised in his next words.

  ‘The rules you know, gentlemen. Ten paces then turn, as I count them out. Anyone seeking to best their opponent before that I will shoot. On ten you may turn and fire at your own convenience. Should no shot strike either party I will call upon you to agree a conclusion or invite you to load again.’

  The fellow, who could be had up for murder if he carried out his threat to shoot, had the voice for the count, deep and sonorous, and being garbed like the Grim Reaper gave him authority. McGann and Lipton moved, pace by pace, away from each other in slow measured steps. On the count of ten Pearce wanted to close his eyes, and his hand was gripping the hilt of his sword so much it hurt. Both men spun, the major pushing one leg back to get proper balance, so as to aim properly. McGann did not bother with such refinements; he fired as soon as he saw his target, and Lipton spun away, taken at the top of his shooting arm, which was sent sideways, his weapon discharged in the process, the ball fired harmlessly into the ground.

  ‘I think you will find, Pearce,’ McGann called, ‘the major will not be looking for satisfaction from you this day.’

  Lutyens was already by the wounded soldier, easing him into a sitting position and tearing at his shirt to get at the wound, a probe already in his hand. Lipton’s second was dosing his pallid principle with brandy, this before he put the leather strap the surgeon had handed him between his teeth. The way the wounded officer took the treatment was admirable; the man was no screaming milksop. He sat, looking over Lutyens shoulder as the surgeon probed with the lack of finesse for which he was known and winced only when he found the musket ball, ignoring the copious blood that flowed from the wound. The cloaked adjudicator stood over the scene and enquired as to whether his companion would be in need of a hospital.

  ‘No,’ Lutyens replied, finally extracting the ball with a log set of tweezers. He then produced what he liked to call his magic formula, a German preparation called Mellisengeist, and pouring that onto a linen pad, he set to staunching the flow of blood.

  ‘Pearce, fetch me that bandage I have laid out, and the other I have already fashioned into a sling.’ The sun was up, bright gold and high by the time he had bound the wound and got the major back onto his feet, the man unsteady but determined. ‘He will have to walk down, he cannot ride.’

  ‘That is our responsibility,’ said his second. He looked over to where McGann stood, well away from the ministrations, and added, ‘The matter is of course settled. Gentlemen, I thank you for your attendance, and you, Mr Lutyens, for the attention you have given to my superior.’

  The fellow in the cloak and his second either side of him, they led Major Lipton from the field, he hunched over in pain, as Pearce said, ‘You were well prepared, Heinrich, were you not? A sling already fashioned?’

  Lutyens looked at Pearce and smiled, his thin hair blowing in the increasing breeze, his face alight with humour. ‘Captain McGann told me to get it prepared. In fact he told me the exact spot in which he was going to wound the fellow, the arm he would need to wield his sword. He laughed when he told me how you underestimated him. It seems that the good captain is a marksman of some repute.’

  It was a week before they got their wind, with nights spent ashore in the company of the French officers. The captains were four very different men. Garnier, of wiry build and pale complexion, was less given to good humour than Moreau, but he was a very pleasant fellow, a well-read man who could hold a decent conversation, who also confessed liking to paint a little when ashore. Jacquelin was taciturn and not happy to share wine and food with folk he still saw as the enemy, which made being in his company hard going. Forcet of the Entreprenant was a fool, and uncouth with it, a man who would never have achieved any commissioned rank in royal service, and he gave the impression, as he damned the Jacobins, that he was as like to damn what went before and still save some bile for what might follow. He ate as though tomorrow was bound for famine, drank like a fish and became both coarse and incomprehensible when drunk, singing raucous and filthy songs which denigrated British manhood, this as the crew from the Faron were obliged to row him back to his vessel.

  ‘A dinna ken whit he was warbling aboot, your honour,’ said Dysart, ‘But ah can tell by the looks it wasna sweet talk.’

  ‘I will not translate, Dysart,’ Pearce replied. ‘We may well have to transport the fellow again and I know you will look for an opportunity to drown him if you understand his sentiments.’

  Coming alongside the ships, he was faced with the other, junior officers, none of whom had been allowed to go ashore on that night, but people with whom Pearce had shared bread and wine. Not that they had failed to enjoy some evening entertainment if they were stuck aboard; ever since they dropped anchor the four ships had been surrounded by boats, some from Gibraltar, others all the way from Algeciras, selling everything they could possibly want, including women. The guard boats provided by Admiral Hartley did nothing to interfere in this trade, but they did seek to count the numbers allowed close, so that no Frenchmen could run when the boats pulled for the shore.

  Eventually the wind swung round, cannons were fired as signals and the shipping in the bay became a hive of activity as they prepared to get under way. Digby waited until a whole host of merchant vessels had cleared the anchorage before signalling himself, hauling HMS Faron over her anchor and leading the way out past the western arm of Algeciras Bay. It was necessary to hug the Spanish shore, the Atlantic current being strongest in mid-channel and weaker by the land, yet even with a wind they made slow progress, inching along. At one point the current won out marginally over the wind, which had the boats out hauling the ships along. It seemed a blessing that it sprung up again before they passed the clifftop town of Tarifa.

  ‘Look there, Pearce, at that damned fortress.’ It needed no real indication from Digby to see the stone towers, dominating as they did the inshore waters, the muzzles of cannon very obvious in the wall embrasures. ‘I would not risk being this close in if we were fighting the Dons, I can tell you.’

  ‘Means waiting for a good blow,’ added Neame. ‘This puff would never serve if we was at war.’

  ‘And it’s every man on deck,’ Digby said, ‘guns run out and nets rigged in case the Spaniards send out gunboats or a capital ship from the bay.’

  ‘What happens if the wind shifts again, Mr Neame?’

  ‘Then you put up your helm, Mr Pearce, and run back for the safety of the Rock, ’cause the next thing on your larboard beam is Cadiz, home port to half the Spanish fleet.’

  Things improved as they weathered Cape Trafalgar, the current easing as it became less intense, and Neame was able to alter course to take the squadron out into the deep Atlantic. He wanted sea room, not a lee shore, in case the wind did shift again, and soon they were leaving land behind, rising and falling on the Atlantic rollers that beat upon the rocky shore over the stern.

  ‘You know the Bay of Biscay, sir?’ asked Neame over a dinner in Digby’s cabin. Lutyens was again present, but his face went blank at the mention of anything nautical. ‘A foul place in the main.’

  ‘I sailed though it on the Lorne and though Captain McGann told me of the reputation of the bay, it was a mill pond on that occasion.’

  ‘Pray for something similar, Pearce, for it is a bad time of year to be around this part of the ocean. The south-westerlies of the autumnal equinox can be vicious.’

  ‘Is that not the wind we seek?’

  ‘I was thinking of getting out of the bay, Mr Pearce, for getting in on this wind is easy.’ Digby paused, then looked around the table in a way that commanded attention. ‘I have waited till we cleared the Straits before bringing up the subject of our destination.’

  ‘I had it as Rochefort followed by Lorient, sir,’ said Neame. ‘That is what I
have marked out as our course.’

  ‘Those are the official orders.’

  Pearce interjected; he knew the tone of his captain’s voice. ‘Which you clearly do not regard as binding?’

  ‘That’s sharp, Pearce, since I have yet to give an opinion.’

  ‘There would be little need to mention it if you intended to just comply, sir.’

  ‘I say this in confidence. Lord Hood’s last words to me were a hint, no more, that such ports might not be the best choice and the act of gifting the French Navy four seaworthy ships was not one to cheer him or to ease his mind.’

  ‘There are few others that could take ships of that draught,’ said Neame.

  Digby leant forward. ‘We have already mentioned the seasonal gales that afflict the Biscay shore. If we run into such weather on our way back to the Straits we will be lucky to make any progress, indeed we may have to run for deep water…’

  ‘If we gets the chance, your honour,’ Neame interrupted with a gloomy expression.

  ‘Well put, Mr Neame. The whole bay is a lee shore at this time of year, with few places of shelter that do not represent an even greater risk. In strict obedience of my written instructions I am to see our charges weather the Ile d’Oléron, allow Patriote and Entreprenant to detach for Rochefort, and let the other pair set a course north for Lorient, it being left to me whether I continue to escort them.’

  ‘What would you rather do, sir,’ asked Pearce, ‘or should I say what would Lord Hood have you do?’

  ‘I have no precise instructions, so let us look at the choices. I take it you would agree that gifting the enemy a squadron of 74-gun ships-of-the-line is not a good idea.’ Both men nodded. ‘So, can we take them to another port that will render them unusable? Bordeaux has the depth of water and has the advantage it is not a naval station, therefore unlikely to have the armaments necessary to re-equip the enemy vessels.’