An Awkward Commission (12 page)

They did come together, the Frenchman having braced his yards round to make it possible, and the enemy crowded over, led by a fellow in a sky blue coat, but the command to cease fire had taken effect, and no one sought to challenge him. Making his way to the quarterdeck, he approached Ralph Barclay and bowed, as Devenow returned the sword to his captain’s hand.

‘Capitaine de Frégate Hypolite Monceau, a votre service.’

His opposite number touched the bloodstained bandage round his head. ‘Captain Ralph Barclay, of His Britannic Majesties’ frigate,
Brilliant
.’

‘Parlez-vous Français, Capitane?’

‘Non.’

‘Malheureusement, je ne parle pas anglais.’

‘Someone fetch Mrs Barclay.’

The two men, as well as the two crews, stood eyeing each other while they waited, the Frenchman’s eyes lifting as Emily emerged onto the deck, her apron and hands covered in blood.

‘Please, my dear, tell this fellow who I am, the name of the ship, and that I am surrendering my sword to avoid further bloodshed.’

As Emily spoke he held the weapon out, secretly pleased that it was Glaister’s, and not his own.

The whole French fleet cheered as the trio of frigates sailed into Toulon, HMS
Brilliant
between her captors, the tricolour above the blue pennant that denoted the rank of the commanding admiral under which she sailed.
The
Poulette
was in a sorrier state than her capture, being steered by relieving tackles and commanded by
sous-officers
, its wheel and most commissioned members of the company having been swept away. If they noticed that the damage to all three was great it did nothing to temper their joy. That might have happened had they been able to see below, where they would have found that all three maindecks were now extended sickbays, that is where they were not occupied by those already dead.

Captain Monceau had been all courtesy, and it transpired he had been an officer in the old Marine Royale, though a lieutenant, not a captain. While he had insisted that the captured crew must remain below, with musket-bearing guards on the companionways, he had, before returning to his own quarterdeck, leaving a lieutenant in charge, ordered that the main cabin be put back into some semblance of order so that both Ralph Barclay and his wife could, once the wounded were treated, wash, change their clothes and make themselves presentable in some privacy. Prior to carrying out her own
toilette
, Emily cleaned and redressed her husband’s wound, where a chunk of flesh had been removed from his brow just below the line of his hair.

The wardroom likewise had been restored, and in that lay Glaister with an arm broken by a musket ball and a couple of wounded midshipmen and master’s mates. The cook was allowed to light his coppers so the men could be fed, and the Frenchman had shown no desire to interfere with the dispensation of their rum ration. Naturally he asked for the ship’s papers, but showed neither surprise nor a hint of anger when he was informed that the private signals had been disposed of; that was a captain’s duty in any navy.

Nor did he object when Ralph Barclay asked to address the men, and to talk to those wounded who could communicate. He, with Emily alongside, walked down a
line of injured sailors laying on the deck, some with wounds that would heal, others maimed so they would never serve again. It was in the eyes that they saw those who would probably expire, that dull look of man prepared to give up the fight. Emily especially tried very hard to lift the spirits of those fellows in a way that her husband envied. Try as he might, his sympathy was tempered by the thought of how his actions would be received by higher authority. He had lost his ship, but to superior odds, and Britannia was inclined to make heroes of men who suffered such a defeat, seeing it as glorious. The Admiralty, however, might take a different view, and demand to know why his ship had been put at risk in the first place.

‘The bill is heavy, Mr Lutyens?’

The surgeon was tired, his eyes red rimmed, for he had not stopped tending to those who needed his care. ‘I will give it you in writing when I have time.’

‘Captain Monceau has assured me that they have an excellent naval infirmary in the port. He will have us alongside the quay so they can be transferred with as little disturbance as possible.’

‘With your permission I will go with them.’

‘Granted, and my wife and I will visit as soon as they let us. Mr Sykes?’

‘Sir,’ replied a dispirited bosun, who was, at least, unwounded.

‘When we get ashore the officers, warrants and men will be separated. I am putting you in charge of the seamen, and I have spoken to the purser and he has agreed to dispense what tobacco he has, though he must for his own sake put it against your names. That you must see to right away, before we dock, or the Frenchmen ashore will surely steal it.’

‘Sir.’

‘I have funds to purchase necessities, but they are
limited. It is my hope our captors will feed us without payment, but should they not do so, direct them to me. And Sykes, no man is to be allowed to volunteer to serve the enemy, no matter how bad conditions become.’

‘Can I assure them of an exchange, your honour?’

‘You can certainly encourage the belief that it might happen, but I think you know as well as I do, that our own Navy must have something with which to bargain.’

‘Capitaine Barclay?’ Ralph Barclay turned to see the lieutenant Monceau had left in charge. The man was looking at Emily, which was natural since she had to translate; what was less acceptable was the obvious delight he took in doing so. ‘Would you be so good as to join me on deck, Admiral de Trogoff’s barge is coming alongside, with the military commander as well, and he and his staff will want to be presented to you and your wife.’

Emily saw the pain in her husband’s eye, for this was likely to be a humiliating experience, even if the French officers sought to make it as painless as possible. She took his arm and whispered in his ear.

‘Remember, husband, you are a hero. You have fought hard and lost honourably. The Admiral and the other French officers, with the exception of Captain Monceau, are mere mortals.’

Dysart woke Farmiloe as soon as the birdsong began, picking up on the first sign of pre-dawn, eastern light, it being time to get back out to sea. The cutter was hauled up onto the beach, with a line to a pine tree trunk to make sure it remained there. It was Dysart who had insisted that staying at sea at night when, ‘They couldn’a see their bluddy hands in front o’ their faces,’ was a daft notion, of the kind only an indifferent captain, ‘Snug in his ain cabin, wi a wife tae comfort him’, would have burdened them with.

Farmiloe had not assented the first night, but ten hours of darkness and fitful sleep in an open and uncomfortable boat, with one man tasked to stay awake as lookout, was obviously stupid when that same lookout could see nothing of any import unless the moon was near full and not covered by cloud. Quite apart from the aches where the wood had indented their bodies, the sole result of trying to stay on station had been to find that they had drifted miles off, and that it took two hours after dawn to get back to approximately the position from which they had been dropped off from
Brilliant
, and from which they were supposed to pick up Barclay’s signal.

The advantages to being ashore were greater than just a decent night’s sleep. It was possible to light a fire and cook their own food, and once they had found a source of water they could drink as much as they pleased, welcome after a
broiling day at sea. If anyone local had spotted them, even if they had come to investigate, all they would observe was a group of sailors doing what such men did, for there was nothing to denote their nationality. Dysart was of the opinion that they would not care. Most folk, he asserted, were like those the world over; content to mind their own business if what seemed odd had no bearing on their existence and if they did seek to alert authority, it would be in daylight, when they would be gone from the beach.

Farmiloe woke slowly, lost in a lubricious dream of the type to which lads of his age were only too prone. That had him moving quickly, once he was upright, to relieve himself in the water lapping the shore, the gentle waves pleasant on his bare feet. By the time he was done, the rest of the men had been roused, and Dysart was using the increasing light to extinguish all trace of their presence; the now-cold ash from the fire and any impressions in the sands that spoke of human existence. When they landed again that night, it would be on a different part of the beach that edged a
cliff-enclosed
bay at least a mile long.

The cask of fresh water was loaded into the cutter, the mast stepped and they pushed off, sure of which course to set, that being the reverse of the previous night, looking for a fishing boat that might provide them with something with which to breakfast. There were, as usual, dozens of them out at sea, boats which had set off in darkness to get to their favourite ground and claim it for their own, each one with a permanently boiling tub of food, part of which they were happy to sell, for once they had a catch it would be replenished. After four days, and with no sight of their mother ship on the horizon to tell them if the French fleet had sailed, the atmosphere had become relaxed, almost soporific, with everyone taking a turn on the tiller, while the rest used the shade of the sail to stay out of the sun.

‘Holy Christ,’ cried Dysart, ‘Look lively, there’s a ship in the offin’ an if am no mistaken it’s
Firefly
.’

Farmiloe, grabbing the mast, pulled himself up and shaded his eyes, his voice, when he spoke, larded with anxiety. ‘You’re right, Dysart, and there’s another ship with her, and we are not where we are supposed to be. Barclay will have me kissing the gunner’s daughter.’

‘Christ Almighty, Captain Gould doesn’a ken that, sir, so I shouldna go worryin’ aboot it. All we has to do is tell him what it is we know an’ he’ll be cock-a-hoop. But I should get your shoes and blue coat on. Ye dinna want to be seen an a state o’ undress.’

There was no sitting in the shade now; it was all hands to look dutiful, even if, with the course to close set and the mast hauled round to take the wind and hold it, there was nothing left to do. Low in the water and in a seascape dotted with fishing smacks, it took some time for the lookout on HMS
Firefly
to spot them, and that only when Farmiloe, in his blue coat and now stained breeches had stood on the gunwale to wave in a furious attempt to attract attention. Both ships backed their sails and rode on the swell as the cutter closed, the first voice they heard that of Davidge Gould calling over the side.

‘Is that you Mr Farmiloe?’

‘It is, sir.’

‘Where is Captain Barclay?’

It was a garbled account that came out, but it was complete by the time they came alongside, not knowing how relieved was Gould, who on being told of the approach of the cutter, and seeing the midshipman in command of it, had half feared that HMS
Brilliant
might have been taken or destroyed. He was moved to near elation when told that not only was the French fleet preparing for sea, but that the youngster had a list of the ships and their armament.

‘Mr Farmiloe, to my cabin at once. I must write a despatch for Lord Hood.’

‘He has taken command, sir?’ asked Farmiloe, before blushing at the look engendered by that statement of the obvious.

Gould wrote swiftly, listing the enemy ships from Farmiloe’s notes, wondering why with this information on such a powerful fleet Ralph Barclay had not sought out the admiral to alert him. But then he reminded himself that in the time they had spent sailing together he had never quite fathomed Barclay, so it was no surprise he did not do so now, all he knew was what he would have done, while acknowledging that he had certainty of the relative proximity of the fleet.

Hood was making good progress, but it was not as swift as it could be, mainly owing to the inability of the Spanish to keep station on their British allies if the latter put on a press of sail. But with news like this, Hood, always by reputation aggressive, would almost certainly have sent ahead a couple of line-of-battle ships, the swiftest sailers, to close Toulon with all despatch, ships strong enough to look into the port and brush aside any frigate that tried to stop them. Much as he was dying to ask the boy now drinking his wine about Ralph Barclay’s motives, that was a conversation he could not have with a midshipman, lest he let slip in his enquiry that he found those actions questionable.

‘Mr Farmiloe, finish your wine and go below to the mids’ berth. You know where that is, I trust?’

The answer was a reluctantly acknowledged yes, he and
Brilliant
’s mids having got drunk on a visit at Lisbon. Their hosts from
Firefly
had been liberal with the wine, before the entire party went ashore and caused as much mayhem as young bucks do when they are full of drink and in a foreign port. Several ladies of Lisbon had had their skirts tweaked,
and those local youths who had tried to stop them had been forced to retire after a good bout of fisticuffs, carrying off those that were too knocked about to walk. It was happy memory, marred only by the punishments inflicted by their superiors for upsetting the nation’s Portuguese allies.

‘Get yourself some clean linen off one of my lads, and a pair of breeches that do not stink of fish. And for God’s sake wash that face of yours, it is filthy.’ That made Gould look really closely. ‘It is time, too, that you started shaving.’

Farmiloe rubbed the soft blond down on his chin, pleased to feel the odd stiff bristle.

‘You are to go aboard my consort HMS
Tormore
, and carry this despatch to Lord Hood.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

Gould had thought about sending one of his own mids, but that, he reasoned, would be unfair. It was Barclay who had discovered the state of affairs, so it was only fitting that one of his youngsters should gather what credit was going for making it known to the C-in-C.

Back on deck, the cutter had been emptied and sent astern, her crew standing about the deck. Gould emerged from his cabin and gave the orders for HMS
Tormore
to close. When Farmiloe appeared twenty minutes latter he was rubbing a freshly shaved chin, and dressed in a clean shirt and stock and a fresh pair of breeches, this while ropes were being thrown from
Tormore
to haul her alongside, with Gould in deep conversation, over the bulwarks, with her commander. Farmiloe was handed the despatch, safely sealed in an oilskin pouch, with Gould peering again at his face, nodding with satisfaction to see a clean chin.

‘Try and stay presentable till you meet the admiral, Mr Farmiloe, for if you turn up in his cabin as filthy as you did in mine, he’ll masthead you. Now say goodbye to your men.’

Dysart was the only one who spoke, the other three just knuckling their foreheads. ‘Look after yersel, laddie, which ah have tae say, nature has not geared you for.’

The smile took the sting out of the words, and Farmiloe patted him on the shoulder to show he was not offended. Then he leapt up and jumped aboard
Tormore
, which cast off immediately.

‘Bosun,’ Gould shouted, pointing at Farmiloe’s men.’ Get the ratings of these fellows. I will alter the watch and station bills to accommodate them until we make contact with their own ship.’

‘An’ here’s me,’ moaned Dysart, ‘thinkin’ we were goin’ to get a wee bit o’ ah bluddy breather.’

Captain McGann did no more than touch at Lisbon, dropping off mail for the British Resident there, picking up the return post, establishing the fact that Hood’s fleet was long gone, first to Cadiz, then to Cartagena in the Mediterranean to rendezvous with the rest of the Spaniards.

Gibraltar he raised in seven day’s sailing. The first sight of the great rock, and the narrow channel it controlled, not forgetting the proximity of the Spanish mainland to the north, made it easy to understand its importance. Nothing could sail in and out of the inland sea without risk from the ships based there.

Dressing in his best uniform to go ashore, hands smelling of turpentine where he had rubbed them to remove traces of tar, Pearce felt a slight sadness, for he had enjoyed the voyage and the company aboard the postal packet. Even in such a short time he had learnt a great deal about everything to do with the sailing of a ship, for McGann had undertaken no change or action with which his passenger was not involved, and he and his crew were patience personified when it came to explanation. He now knew a buntline from a clewline,
and which on the
Lorne
ran to which belaying pin, a becket from a grommet, how to find his latitude, though a precise fixing of his longitude was a very hit and more likely miss affair. He understood something of sails and their functions, as well as the fact that less aloft could often produce more speed, that any sail plan was a balance of the force of the wind on the canvas it touched and the run of the sea through which they were travelling.

There were a thousand other small facts to add to what he had already learnt aboard Navy ships about what was a very complex instrument of movement, one that looked so simple from afar. McGann had talked about the sea they sailed through as though it was a living, breathing thing. He seemed to know every current from the Channel, through Biscay to the coast of Iberia, where the water was slack and when, and what tides at what time would make for a swifter passage and, just as important, those that would impede him. He talked of variable winds caused by the heat of the land and the cold of the sea, of the general irregularity of the breezes however steady they seemed, which called for constant attention to sails and course if a ship was to get the best out of it. In truth, he imparted so much, that John Pearce doubted he would remember it all.

‘I wish you God speed, and the hope that providence will keep you safe.’ Peering a little closer at the roly-poly captain, Pearce reckoned he saw a wetting around the eyes, and was touched. ‘And I hope that you will think kindly of me and my lads.’

‘Always, Mr McGann,’ Pearce replied, truthfully.

They were all on deck now that the packet was moored, waiting to shake him by the hand, and Pearce had to admit that the parting made him, too, a little lachrymose. It came to him then that
Lorne
had been like a home to him, a brief one but a place that had given him that rare thing in his life,
a feeling of belonging. His sea chest loaded into the boat with the containers of post, and being rowed ashore, he reflected on that, wondering if he would ever be settled, if he would ever cease to move around and one day put down roots. Given the task he had set himself, it looked unlikely that such a thing would happen in the immediate future.

The Rock of Gibraltar, the peak surrounded by a single cloud, was a crowded place, not only by its indigenous inhabitants and the Navy, but by soldiers permanently placed here for defence, a fact made obvious to Pearce in the short walk he took from the landing stage to the Port Admiral’s house. The place bristled with gun emplacements and redoubts, red coats and blue. Taken from Spain in 1702, the Dons had never renounced their claim to it as their territory, and had indeed tried to retake it more than once, the last attempt just over ten years previously. Ownership had become, to them, an obsession. Looking out of the Port Admiral’s window, he could see the narrow isthmus that connected the Rock with the shore, open now, but so enfiladed with cannon that it could be turned into a death trap at a moment’s notice.

‘Damned odd seeing old Langara sail by in company with Hood,’ said the lieutenant who had been detailed to look after Pearce, this while the admiral’s clerk perused his orders. ‘Couldn’t anchor, of course. Would never do to let a Don admiral set foot on the blessed rock. We might never shift the sod.’

‘Did HMS
Leander
dock here?’

The man nodded. ‘A week ago, or was it eight days, to make up her water. Captain got a cold welcome from the admiral, and a sharp command to get back to sea and catch up with Lord Hood, but he would not do that without he had made an excursion to the mainland. Ask me, they only touched to arrange a boxing bout with the army. Brought
with them a fine bruiser of a fellow, a Irishman who might make his mark if he took to it proper. He was not just good, he was clever with it. The Leanders cleaned out the bullocks, who naturally backed their trooper.’