Enemies at Every Turn Page 6

  ‘You are about to dine with the great and the good, young fellow, and perhaps relate your adventures. We cannot leave it to the bullocks to tell the navy how they fared, or should we say failed, outside Bastia. You will not struggle to make my barge?’

  The article in question was bobbing up and down several feet below at the end of a stepped gangway, fully manned with smartly dressed oarsmen, those sticks rigidly upright and dressed. Hotham was a stickler for his dignity and before he descended in the wake of both Burns and his flag lieutenant he paused to ensure that nothing was out of place. Particular anyway, he was off to sup with a man he equated to the devil and nothing must be untoward enough to invite comment.

  The major part of the fleet commanded by Samuel, Lord Hood was anchored in the deep bay, but only once they got close to Victory was it possible to observe that HMS Agamemnon, Commodore Nelson’s flagship, lay to seaward, his blue pennant still on the mizzenmast. Being in the presence of several senior officers and only holding his own rank as a courtesy, that pennant should have been struck – a fact alluded to and not with much joy by the admiral, albeit sotto voce so that only the lieutenant and Toby Burns could hear.

  ‘Fellow’s a schemer of the worst sort, you know. All Nelson’s projections somehow end up with him chasing after the laurels and damn anyone else. I daresay our foolish C.-in-C. has indulged him in allowing the pennant, but I’m damned if I would.’

  Hotham was piped aboard with all the ceremony due to his rank and having carried out the required inspection of the marine guard he made his way to Hood’s cabin, the flag lieutenant at his heels; prior to dinner there was to be a conference on how to proceed in throwing the French off the island, basically by taking both the only places they still held, the heavily fortified towns of Bastia and Calvi.

  This left his midshipman at something of a loss, so he made his way down to the berth in which he had at one time been accommodated to seek a familiar face, shocked to find that of the twenty-four souls who had been occupants all were now serving in other vessels, so rapid was the turnover of souls in a fleet at war. Instead of receiving a greeting he was met by those present with blank stares.

  Not wishing to linger with strangers he made his way back up to the main deck, seeking to look inconspicuous in amongst an international knot of officers, both British services in red and blue, green-coated Spaniards and some very swarthy coves who seemed to dress as they pleased, whom he took to be Corsicans. Drifting through the throng, he picked up hints of what was afoot: an attack on Bastia from the sea.

  ‘Well I wish you joy of it,’ he said softly to himself, his free hand going to his wounded arm, as if that was a talisman that would keep him away from such a harebrained escapade.

  ‘Burns?’

  The use of his name stopped Toby in his tracks and he peered at the fellow who had addressed him, for there was nought but lantern light on this deck, the voice identifying the speaker as much as the face. Taller than Toby Burns and a bit older, it was a fellow mid from HMS Brilliant.

  ‘Farmiloe?’

  ‘What are you doing aboard?’

  ‘I could ask you the same question, could I not?’

  ‘I came with Commodore Nelson in command of his barge.’

  There was a hint of boast in the reply from Toby Burns. ‘I am here at the express command of Admiral Hotham. It seems I am to dine in the great cabin.’

  That such a lowly mid was to take a place in the commanding admiral’s cabin evoked no curiosity; it was habit in the service to include the odd minnow in such gatherings, in order to teach them some proper manners, as well as being a sign of favour.

  ‘Still in Hotham’s flagship, then?’ Burns nodded. ‘What’s with the sling?’

  ‘Took a musket ball in the hills outside Bastia.’

  ‘Did you, by damn?’ The why and the how explained, Farmiloe added. ‘That is where we have just come from.’

  ‘Are you still in Brilliant?’

  ‘No, though she is part of the squadron. I shifted to Agamemnon as acting sixth.’

  Farmiloe grinned, showing very white teeth in what was now a face made brown by the Mediterranean sun, his voice full of good-humoured self-deprecation. He was a good-looking youth, fair-haired, taller than Toby Burns and it was obvious that he had matured somewhat since they had first met at Sheerness under the command of Ralph Barclay.

  ‘Which just goes to show, Toby, how short is the fleet of commissioned lieutenants.’

  ‘It does, Dick.’

  Burns gave that reply in a flat inappropriate tone, taking at face value Farmiloe’s jocular modesty, which sent a confused flicker across the speaker’s face, though only for a moment.

  ‘Mind you, we are short of everything; Agamemnon is so high in the water for want of stores she can barely hold to her wind, but you cannot get our commodore away from action to re-victual. The man is a proper terrier and insists that the mountain must come to us.’

  The interjection after the word ‘terrier’ – ‘So I have heard’ – reflected what Hotham had said in his barge, which was in stark contrast to the enthusiasm evident in Farmiloe’s bright-blue eyes, his manner as animated as his countenance.

  ‘Not a day goes by that we are not at some task or other, taking merchant vessels, raiding ashore. We went in and had a bash at bombarding the port, which we reckoned did no damage at all to the walls of the citadel and left us with half a dozen forty-two-pound balls lodged in our scantlings, not that they threatened the ship in any way. It was only when a Dane came out next day that we learnt we had dismounted three cannon.’

  ‘How splendid.’

  ‘You should get yourself out of an admiral’s ship, Toby.’

  There was a note of real pique in the reply. ‘I get out too damned often, Dick. I went in with the army’s boats at San Fiorenzo yonder only to see my lieutenant take a ball that crippled him, while I nearly got my head blown off. No sooner was the town captured than I was sent off over the mountains under a mad marine who managed to get himself killed in a mad charge on an enemy battery.’

  Toby Burns checked himself then; he had been about to add that he thought Hotham had it in for him but that was not a wise thing to say to anyone.

  ‘Damn it, Toby, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’

  ‘Servants are gathering,’ Toby said, nodding to the line of men in clean checked shirts and red bandanas; not quite a deliberate change of subject, it was close.

  ‘I’m invited to the wardroom for dinner, which I hazard will be a damn sight more relaxed affair than what you are going to attend.’ Farmiloe began to walk away, calling over his shoulder. ‘Don’t disgrace yourself.’

  Which left his one-time shipmate wondering what he meant.

  There was a great deal of glitter in the admiral’s great cabin and not just from the crystal and silverware. Toby Burns was surrounded by senior officers of both services, all loud in their conversation, most of which went over his head. Like most midshipmen – even he conformed to the description of a growing lad – he was in a state of permanent unrequited hunger and what he was being served was not only fresh from the shore, but of a much higher quality than he was accustomed to, while it was pleasing to have one of the servants, on spotting his sling, cut up his food for him.

  At the head of the table sat Lord Hood and on his right an elderly man he knew to be General Pasquale Paoli, the hero of Corsican independence, a man he had been told had once been much lionised by London society, while the next seat was taken by Sir Gilbert Elliot, a civilian diplomat type who seemed to have Paoli’s ear.

  On Hood’s left sat Hotham, eating with a refinement lacking in most of the guests, careful with his napkin to ensure that no food remained visible on his face or clothing after consumption. It took no great discernment to observe that Hood’s conversation was entirely to his right, to Paoli and Elliot; in terms of inclusion in what had to be the prime conversation, Hotham was being ignored.

  Nelson was a couple of plac
es away from the admiral, in strict order of rank, and he was clearly in the kind of high spirits that so impressed Farmiloe. Given the arrangement of the tables, his voice was loud enough to carry over the hubbub of other conversations to what could be considered below the salt. The man was an object of curiosity, for Toby had heard him described as a combative sort by fellows other than his one-time shipmate, which was amazing given he was so short in the leg and no great shakes in the chest either, obvious even if he was sitting down.

  As well as that he was a conversational arm-waver, emphasising what he was saying with sweeping gestures that went with the nature of his piping high-pitched voice. He had just finished relating an action at sea, involving some French war vessel called Melpomene, which sounded like a sharp engagement, and had moved on to the subject of Bastia, around which, backing up what Farmiloe had said, he had made several excursions ashore to burn whatever he could find.

  ‘Population’s about four thousand in all, we reckon, with a garrison that cannot number more than a quarter of that number.’

  ‘Cannon?’ asked another post captain, a fellow unknown to Toby Burns.

  ‘Forty-two-pounders and well worked, for you can trust John Crapaud to handle his guns well.’

  ‘As we found to our cost at Toulon,’ Nelson’s companion replied.

  ‘They have stripped out a frigate called La Flèche and landed her guns,’ Nelson said, adding a bit of a glass-rattling slap to the mahogany tabletop. ‘But I mean to have her, sir, and damn me if we don’t take the town with her.’

  ‘You do not anticipate, Captain Nelson, that Bastia might be a harder nut to crack than you stated at the conference?’ Those words came from Hotham and in his expression it was plain he had reservations. ‘After all, if our army friends decline to support you, then they must have sound reasons.’

  That stopped whatever words Hood was saying to Pasquale Paoli and had him turn his head to glare at Hotham, heavy grey eyebrows lowered above that very prominent nose added to a look he took care to soften, given the number of people present, even if it was no secret that they despised each other.

  ‘Sir William, the matter has been decided. While I respect the soldiers’ right to decline to take part in the investiture of Bastia, I have the troops at my disposal to undertake the task without their involvement.’

  The reply was as smooth as the man making it, this while some of the soldiers growled and looked along the table; Hood was making them sound shy instead of prudent for their insistence that they lacked the numbers to be effective.

  ‘I know, Milord, but I cannot help but think that Captain Nelson, whose plan it is, might have underestimated the difficulties.’

  ‘Which we have discussed.’

  ‘I only seek a fuller picture.’

  ‘Sir,’ Nelson interjected, ‘the garrison is locked in to landward by the very excellent troops of General Paoli.’ That got an appreciative nod from the Corsican, who having spent so much time exiled in London spoke good English. ‘They cannot be reinforced except by sea and I will bar that …’

  ‘With my aid,’ Hood added.

  ‘Of course, Milord,’ Nelson nodded, so emphatically that several locks of his abundant corn-coloured hair slipped from his queue. ‘Despair is as much a weapon as cannon fire, Sir William, and I cannot but feel that the men of the garrison will be disinclined to lay down their lives for a revolution which cannot support them.’

  ‘Especially when I announce what I was going to leave till our dinner was over!’ Hood barked that statement and stood looking to the Corsican leader. ‘But now will do as well as any. General Paoli has asked that he be allowed to petition His Majesty, King George, to accept the island the general has fought so long and hard for as a territory owing allegiance to the British crown.’

  Hood let the buzz of conversation carry on for a few seconds before picking up his goblet of wine, an act immediately copied by everyone else, Toby included, albeit he was a bit tardy.

  ‘When Bastia falls, gentlemen, as I am sure it will’ – that came with a sideways flick to Hotham – ‘then two flags will fly above its citadel, that of our Corsican allies alongside the standard of King George. So, a toast to a long and happy association with the free people of this island, under the benign sovereignty of John Bull.’

  Everyone stood to toast that and it came with three times three in cheers; even Hotham was driven to a few muted hurrahs! When things had died down and everyone went back to their previous conversations, Hotham caught Nelson’s attention once more.

  ‘Captain Nelson, may I point out to you that midshipman well down the board?’ Toby Burns found himself under more eyes than those of the admiral and the commodore, so much so that his neck disappeared. ‘He carries a wound, for he took a ball graze in the arm outside Bastia in support of our gallant soldiers.’

  That got some hard looks from the redcoats present; they could sniff an insult however well disguised and they had barely tried to invest Bastia. They had claimed it was too well defended with the troops they had at their disposal and still was.

  ‘But I expect Mr Burns’ arm to be fully healed within a day or two.’

  ‘Brave fellow,’ said Nelson, with a look that seemed as if he meant it.

  ‘He is that, Captain,’ Hotham continued, ‘and I can assure you he will liven your table with stories of his exploits, young as he is.’ Toby Burns knew what was coming, just as he knew he could do nothing about it. ‘Given his love, nay his addiction to risk, it would be tragic for him to languish aboard my flagship with action in the offing.’

  ‘You wish me, sir, to take him to Bastia, sir?’ Nelson asked, grinning inanely in the direction of Toby Burns, who was thinking maybe he had drunk too much.

  ‘I do, Captain, as long as you promise me that he will be given further opportunity to distinguish himself. I would not wish to spare him for no purpose.’

  ‘I weigh as soon as we complete our dinner, sir.’

  Hotham was looking directly at Toby then, his pale-blue eyes as bland as his habitual facial expression, until he leant back to signal to one of the servants. ‘Then I suggest you must take him aboard immediately. I will send my barge for his dunnage this very instant and have it aboard Agamemnon before you set foot in her.’

  ‘Well, young fellow,’ Nelson cried, his voice full of hearty good cheer. ‘What can you say to that, except to most humbly thank Sir William for such favour?’

  There was no one to talk to, not a single soul he could confide in, and it was hard enough to get some peace to think aboard Nelson’s ship as it prepared to weigh. Hotham was deliberately putting him in the way of danger again and all because he had been the chief witness at his Uncle Ralph’s court martial. Typical of Toby Burns he would not, in his misery, admit to being the chief liar as well; to his mind coercion – and Ralph Barclay had applied that in bucketloads – absolved him of any blame for the untruths he had uttered.

  The only person he knew even vaguely was Richard Farmiloe, yet he constituted the last person who could provide a confessional ear. Farmiloe had been with Barclay the night he had deliberately raided the Liberties and was such a threat to the captain that he, like Pearce and his stupidly named Pelicans, had been sent off on an errand to La Rochelle, allowing the trial to take place when they were well out of the way.

  And now it was apparent Hotham felt threatened, for if lowly Toby Burns ever told the truth and denied the testimony he had entered to the court off Toulon, that he had been with his uncle when he had not, that it was not, and could not be, his fault they had entered the Liberties by his navigational mistake, for the very simple reason he was not present at all, the repercussions could ripple out to engulf even an admiral as well connected politically as Hotham.

  It would have cheered miserable Toby Burns immeasurably to know that the admiral was harbouring the same thoughts. He had taken Barclay under his wing as a client – every captain needed a flag officer on his side – partly for the favours he had done on
the way out to the Mediterranean, but another reason was that Hood disliked him. This meant while the man owed a duty to him, Hotham owed a reciprocal obligation, as he did to any of the captains who supported his flag and backed him against the C.-in-C.

  Thus he had set up that sympathetic court, chosen as judges officers he could trust, suppressed the written depositions damning Barclay and sent away the witnesses who could do him harm. Yet like an itch he could not scratch there was that little toad Burns, whom he had taken into Britannia to hold him close; Barclay would never betray him, for to do so would incriminate himself, – but Toby Burns? He had the backbone of an eel and would not withstand any pressure if questioned.

  ‘Let us hope,’ he said out loud, ‘that Nelson gets the little bugger’s head blown off.’

  Truly there was no joy in being second in command to the likes of Hood, a man who had made a fatal error at Toulon by not only accepting the rebellious French officers as allies, but also by occupying the port as a bastion against the Revolution. The fleet should have sailed in, sunk every ship in the harbour and burnt those tied up on the quays, but he had not and what was the result now?

  Not only had they been evicted from the main French base in the Mediterranean, with significant loss of life, but he now had to take a squadron of line-of-battle ships and blockade those very same ships Hood had failed to destroy in that very same harbour. It was not long before pen and paper were in use as he composed another complaint to his political patron, the Duke of Portland, the subject being the same as many others – that he, William Hotham, was better suited to command the fleet than Samuel Hood.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The party that arrived on the main deck of the receiving hulk was strong enough to handle any trouble, a clutch of hard-case impress men, quite a few with the look in their eye that hoped for a bit of a scrap. Their presence, where they could not be seen, was announced by the way the babble of talk fell abruptly silent. Charlie Taverner knew there to be upwards of five hundred souls accommodated on the decks, this told to him by those he and Rufus had joined by the casements; he also knew how few were seamen, which meant many would have been taken up by violence.