A Flag of Truce (4 page)

Both John Pearce and Emily Barclay had an awkward moment then; every patient treated by Lutyens had a similar experience, generally a painful one. He was not cack-handed exactly, just distracted and indifferent, having often stated that the physical aspects of medicine held little of interest to him. His patients could not agree, and he always gave them cause to feel their opinion.

‘John Pearce, you are returned.’

‘And in one piece.’

Lutyens indicated the sea outside the windows, now bright blue and less disturbed. ‘One of my patients, an ambulant fellow, pointed out the approach of your ship. I am given to understand that, according to your flags, you have suffered both a tragic loss and victory over our enemies.’

‘The first ill-fortune, the second the opposite, of which I am the beneficiary.’

‘We will take coffee together, and you may tell me all. Mrs Barclay, will you join us?’

She blushed bright red, nailing her reply as an excuse. ‘I fear I cannot. I am expected, indeed I
would be surprised if the boat my husband sends for me is not waiting at this very moment.’

As if to emphasise that she began to untie the knot at the rear of her pinafore. Lutyens, with a look of passive acceptance for an obvious untruth, just nodded. Being the surgeon of her husband’s frigate, a man who had witnessed the confrontation of John Pearce and Ralph Barclay and who had also heard of the words exchanged at their last meeting, he knew only too well why she had declined. Both sets of male eyes followed her as she scurried out of the room, and had they been honest with each other, they might have admitted to similar thoughts.

‘Poor creature,’ said Lutyens softly.

‘Why so?’ asked Pearce.

The surgeon half smiled. ‘That is for me to know and you to ponder. Now let us have that pot of coffee and your tale. A battle did you have?’ Pearce nodded. ‘Then I am particularly interested in your impression of the behaviour of the crew. I wish to compare it with my own recent experiences.’

John Pearce decided to keep quiet about the ball that had grazed his arm to Lutyens as well; given his method of treatment, it was less painful that way.

It was an hour before the boat arrived to take Emily Barclay back to HMS
Brilliant
, an hour in which she had fretted that she might again meet with John Pearce, an hour in which she knew it was an
encounter she would have to keep secret from her husband. It was therefore truly unfortunate that one of the two people rowing her boat was a
fresh-faced
youth with a half-broken voice called Martin Dent, doubly so that Pearce came into sight, walking the shore with Lutyens in deep conversation, as the boat made its landfall. The cry of the name filled the air, and spotting not only Martin but several other familiar faces, Pearce walked down to the small jetty to which the boat had been tied up.

‘Well, Martin, you are still whole?’

‘But too stupid to address you proper,’ said the man next to him, a bosun’s mate called Costello. ‘If’n the captain was here he’d flay him.’

‘I heard you was wearing a blue coat these days,’ said Martin. ‘Though the how is a mystery.’

The sight of Emily Barclay had done it, and Martin Dent had the same effect; it took him back to what had happened at the beginning of the year. Here, greeting him like a long-lost brother was a youngster who had at one time tried to kill him, and who, he had no doubt, had been the cause of the death of another. In the dress of a marine drummer, Martin had been one of the party who had taken up him and the others, men who became his friends of necessity, from that Thameside tavern, the Pelican. Even on a warm day, in bright sunlight, surrounded by blue sea and the smell of burnt earth and sweet
flowers, he could imagine himself back in that smoke-filled tavern. The faces of those with whom he had sought to evade the press-gang swam before his eyes, especially Abel Scrivens, Martin Dent’s victim. Then there was Ben Walker, the sixth member of his original mess, who had been washed overboard from HMS
Brilliant
in an encounter with a Barbary pirate ship; he would be alive today without his being pressed. Yet Martin had changed, had seen the error of his ways, had even apologised, and that was the fellow he addressed now.

‘I fear, Martin, in public, you will have to touch your forelock if you spy me, but do not ever do so when no other officer is present, or I will be the one to flay you.’

‘Should you have a ship, Pearce, it would be good to serve under you.’

‘Do not, Martin, pin any hopes on that, and don’t be so sure that service under me will be so pleasant.’

‘You won’t use the cat, Pearce. You was one of us.’

‘Excuse me, Lieutenant.’

Pearce stood aside to let Emily pass, then proffered his hand to help her down into the boat, something she could hardly refuse. The tingle that ran up his arm was as strange as it was noticeable, and he wondered if, under a wide straw sun-hat hiding her face, she had experienced the same.
There was no way of knowing; she kept her face turned away, even when, in a moment of inspiration, he asked Cortello if he could cadge a lift across to the other side of the bay. The favour granted and his sea-chest aboard, the youngster, all bright eyes and excitability, managed to embarrass Pearce, intrigue Emily Barclay and bore the already aching arses off his fellow sailors, who had heard the tale a dozen times before, as he recounted how he and his old mate had once taken a whole merchant ship from under the noses of John Crapaud.

‘I think you are forgetting, Martin,’ Pearce said eventually, in an attempt to shut him up, ‘that there were others present.’

‘They don’t signify to my mind, especially that toad Burns.’

‘My nephew?’ said Emily, surprised. ‘Why do you call him a toad?’

Martin Dent would have loved to have told her he was worse; he was a cowardly rat and even then he did not know the mention of the name to John Pearce was inclined to make his blood boil. Toby Burns was a deceitful little bastard who had abandoned him to a second impressment within sight of the south coast of England. Much as he would have liked to say so, he could no more condemn the little swine with his aunt in earshot than could Martin Dent, who was obliged to emit an unconvincing apology.

‘Slip of the tongue, mam. Term of affection really.’

‘Shall we drop you off at the end of the mole, Lieutenant?’ asked Emily.

The voice had a tremor which had Pearce wondering at the reason. While his mind alighted on the possibility of attraction, hers was centred on the truth. For whatever reason, if her husband saw this officer in his ship’s boat, he would have a seizure.

‘Obliged,’ said Pearce, as he scrambled ashore, taking a slippery green ladder up the wall of the mole, his dunnage following. ‘Perhaps we may meet again.’

For the first time he heard her being sharp. ‘I fear it is unlikely, Lieutenant Pearce.’

‘Take care, Martin.’

‘You too, Pearce.’

The frigate, fully repaired from the battle in which she had been forced to strike her colours, lay in the inner harbour and her husband had moved them both back on board as soon as he could, happier, as he insisted, to pace his own planking than stay on in the tower in which they had been incarcerated as prisoners. He saw the boat approach and hurried down the gangplank to the quayside so he could assist his wife in climbing the ladder from boat to shore. Even after nearly a year of marriage, each
time he saw Emily he still felt the need to pinch himself at his good fortune, which was not a thing he had enjoyed much favour from in his life. Deep down, he knew that for his wife, duty was part of their nuptials, an entailed property that would have seen her parents and the rest of her family displaced from if he had enforced his rights. But she was still a wonder to Ralph Barclay; beautiful, mainly dutiful, barring the odd squabble, and a positive asset in his dealing with his fellow officers. Not greeted by the habitual warm smile, he was taken aback at the pursed lips and unfocused look on his wife’s face as she steadied herself on the quay.

‘My dear, you look peaked. I do hope Lutyens has not been working you too hard.’

Emily was still thinking about the events of the morning; of the sudden appearance of John Pearce, and the unpleasant thoughts regarding her husband’s honesty in the days immediately before Lord Hood took over the port. Then there was the tale told by Martin Dent in the rowboat, of the taking of that merchant vessel from a Breton port, which differed substantially from that which had been told to her right after the action by her nephew, Toby Burns. And why had Martin Dent called him a toad?

‘We shall have a capital dinner to cheer you up, Mrs Barclay,’ her husband said, in a hearty voice designed to lift her spirits. ‘And I have invited
young Burns to join us. You two may talk family to your hearts’ content.’

That the thought had the opposite effect to that intended was made obvious by the deep frown which swept across Emily Barclay’s face.

Elphinstone’s headquarters were at the citadel, the main bastion inside the Vauban defences, the
well-ordered
and designed buildings around it standing in stark contrast to the confusion that reigned outside the walls. It seemed he was responsible for the defence of the eastern sector and parties of marines and sailors lay about, each seeking shade from the sun, looking listless and disengaged, this while officers, both French and British, scuttled about, seemingly to no purpose, if you discounted that each seemed to carry in their hands written orders of some kind.

Once inside the citadel, Pearce was hard put to find anyone who could tell him why he was here and what he was required to do, though he did find that the officers had set up a mess, and being provisioned by the French it was well stocked with both food and wine. So, in the absence of orders he
made up for what he had missed by treating himself to a good dinner. It was when he came to bedding down, a need that took him right into the heart of the headquarters, that he ran into the first real problem.

‘Go back to your ship, sir, like everyone else,’ said a weary-looking civilian clerk.

‘I do not have a ship.’

The clerk looked at him as if he had said he lacked a mother. ‘If you have no ship, sir, I am at a loss to know how you got here.’

‘I was relieved of my duties aboard HMS
Weazel
this morning.’

‘HMS
Weazel
, sir. Did I hear you right when you said Weazel?’

The voice was strong, definitely Scottish, if of the refined sort, and when he turned Pearce knew, just by the man’s presence, that he was important. The grey hair was curled and fine, the eyes were penetrating in a face that probably wore, most often, a disapproving scowl, though it was more a look of deep curiosity now. He also had, on his blue coat, the twin epaulettes of a Post Captain of three years’ seniority.

‘I did, sir. I had the honour to command her in the recent action off Corsica, after the unfortunate death…’

The interruption was sharp. ‘Of that drunken oaf, Benton.’

‘He was brave as well, sir,’ Pearce snapped, ‘and it does not become any fellow officer, of whatever rank, to speak ill of him now he’s been killed.’

‘You would not, you insolent pup, be trying to put me in ma place?’ The smile on the man’s face was at odds with the words; he was clearly amused by the notion. ‘You will be Adam Pearce’s boy? Hood spoke of you.’

‘I am, sir, and proud of it!’

‘My, that’s a sharp rejoinder, laddie. There’s no need to be ashamed of your bloodline, even if the man named was a damned menace.’ Seeing Pearce begin to well up in defence, the Post Captain carried on quickly. ‘But I’ll no damn a fellow for his antecedents, man. If I did, an Elphinstone would have to stab half the population of Scotland on sight, since we have been at odds with every one of them at some time in the last few hundred years. So, boy, I will treat you as one of my ain, till you show me I am amiss.’

Not sure how to respond, Pearce said. ‘I was enquiring about a berth, being now without a ship.’

‘Och, we will soon sort that out, laddie, will we not Myers?’

Elphinstone was looking past Pearce to the now flustered clerk, who stammered his reply. ‘We can board him on a local family, sir, but not at such short notice without we cause upset.’

‘Then make sure it is a good one. Tonight,
Pearce, you can rest your heid here in the citadel. Happen tomorrow we will find you something to do.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Have you dined?’

‘Yes, sir, and most handsomely.’

‘Then you can sit with me as I take my dinner and tell me all about your wee skirmish.’

It was only when they had moved from wine to brandy, a very fine brew from the Armagnac region, that they left the subject of the Navy, captains
over-indulging
in drink and battles, to move on to the subject of Adam Pearce.

‘I met him long before you were born, when he was a young and I a stripling of a midshipman,’ said Elphinstone. ‘Edinburgh is a small place in the social sense, and he was a bright man making his way. I think it was Boswell who introduced us but it could have been the father of Malthus, the dour fiscal philosopher, who was visiting Scotland.’

‘And how, sir, did you find him?’

‘I told you, laddie, a damned nuisance with his ravings, but an amusing one. Much more so than those who still hankered after that Popish fool of a Stuart.’ Seeing Pearce raise an eyebrow, Elphinstone added, ‘Don’t imagine their dreams died in ’45, laddie. They see their erstwhile king as a romantic hero, instead of what he really was, a wine-sodden
fop with nothing in his gonads but water.’

‘At least I think my father would have agreed with you there.’

‘For the very reason that he hated monarchs, laddie, Stuart or any other, which borders on blasphemy. He was a contentious man when his humour failed and I often wonder if it was just disputation or principle that was his abiding animation.’

‘Let me assure you, sir, that it was principle.’

An aide entered and placed before Elphinstone a sheaf of reports, which he began to read, leaving Pearce nursing his glass in silence. In a haze of slight inebriation, brought on by wine and Armagnac, Pearce could recall his father in his prime – a
fast-walking
busy man, not the broken invalid he had last set eyes on – the fire in the eyes, the passion in the voice as he harangued crowds all over the land, seeking to bring them to a realisation of their plight as exploited labour. This took place while son John plied the crowd and tried to collect enough in his hat to pay for a decent night’s lodging and a good dinner. Sometimes they got an invite to the nearest great house; odd how they had often been on the receiving end of hospitality from the very people his father condemned, rich men on big estates, who seemed happy to have under their roof, and to dispute with, a radical orator who wanted to burn their mansions over their heads, as well as give their
land to their tenants. At other times Adam and John Pearce had been obliged to sleep in the open, or, if it was too cold, in a barn or a byre.

Yet it had been a happy time in the main, when as a boy should, he believed what his father advocated and trusted whatever he said had to be true. Occasionally they settled for a short period and he was forced to attend school, there to defend those parental ideas with fist and feet, teeth and elbow, this taking place out of the sight of masters who, when they were sober enough to wield the birch, saw that as the way to drum knowledge into young heads.

‘Army of Italy!’ barked Elphinstone.

That dragged Pearce out of a reverie in which the many hardships he had suffered, the Fleet prison included, seemed to be overborne by the good times; sunlit days, fishing, or tickling trout in sparkling streams, abundant apples on trees, with one eye out for a bailiff, eating heartily in Post House Inns amongst folk travelling from one place to another, all with a tale to tell to an eager young ear, at other times striding out along country roads to shouted greetings from those toiling to get in the harvest, occasionally sharing a pail of beer, and a memory of a parent who cared mightily to make sure his son was educated by patient instruction, giving him a smattering of Greek, Latin, of counting and grammar, plus his own interpretation of history.

‘Damned fool name for a rabble.’

‘Sir?’

‘That mob of bare-arsed villains, who hold us in from the east, who favour themselves with this grandiloquent soubriquet. The Army of Italy be damned and if the man commanding them is a general I am a regimental goat. If they have ten pairs of boots between them I would be amazed, but it seems they are stirring, laddie, which is not good news.’

Captain Elphinstone dropped his voice, not to a whisper exactly but low enough to avoid being overheard, as though the French were listening in the walls. ‘We wanted them supine, which they have been, thank God, since they hauled their bare feet from the Po Valley. Containing Carteaux to the west is task enough with what we have. If Lapoype…’

Seeing John Pearce’s confusion, he quietly enlightened him.

‘Their general, most likely a sergeant afore the upheavals, and a timid scunner at that. He has sat on his arse doing nothing, which suited us just fine.’ He picked up one of the reports. ‘But this tells me he is stirring to make an assault on the L’Artigues and Fort Faron.’

‘Will he succeed?’

‘Never, laddie, but any assault draws troops from the west for the defence, and no doubt we will lose
men we can ill afford to drive him back.’ Elphinstone looked at the report in his hand again, and when he had re-read it, he waved it at Pearce. ‘This does not tell me near enough. I need a man to go to Fort Faron and give me a clear picture, and if necessary take some action to contain him. That you will do in the morning. I will have you roused out an hour before dawn.’

Suddenly Pearce was a little more sober. ‘With respect, sir, I do not feel qualified to give you what you need. I have no knowledge of military tactics.’

‘Laddie,’ Elphinstone said emphatically. ‘You are a Scot and a proven fighter, as well as the holder of a King’s commission and the son of a born troublemaker. That, sir, will dae me.’

Neither the taste in Pearce’s mouth, nor the fur on his tongue, was in any way eliminated by the hurried breakfast of bread, a fruit compote, and coffee, consumed long before first light. Taking from his kit all that he would need, he found Elphinstone’s clerk had written orders for him, which meant that his master had stayed up long after Pearce had staggered off to bed. Outside the citadel stood a file of soldiers from the 11
^th
Regiment of Foot and a group of sailors he was to take up to the position. The soldiers were under the command of a weary-looking lieutenant called Dilnot, to whom he would have happily
surrendered command, but a naval lieutenant
outranked
a red-coated one, and the fellow showed no sign of seeking to dispute his rights.

‘Arsenal first,’ said Pearce, having read his orders. ‘We are to haul some cannon up those hills.’

The expression on the faces of the sailors was indicative enough of the undesirability of that task. Toulon sat in a bowl of mountainous terrain and anything going out to the defences, barring the road to Marseilles, meant going up a steep incline. Oxen, he was quietly informed by Robertshaw, the coxswain in charge of the sailors, could only do so much; manpower had to be employed, and he managed to make it plain that his tars would not take it kindly if the bullocks, soldiers drafted to serve in a marine capacity by the exigencies of war, thought they could just march alongside toiling seamen.

At the Arsenal, by the French fleet’s gun wharf, the dockyard mateys, none of whom spoke a word of English, aided by his party, loaded nine-pounder cannon, weighing near two tons, and their separate trunnions, onto heavy-duty ox-drawn wagons, as well as the shot and powder that would serve them. Two cable-length pieces of rope were added as well, along with some lighter hemp, a couple of double blocks and some chain.

‘Lieutenant, I wish your men to divest themselves of their weapons, equipment and red coats.’ Dilnot
looked at him with raised eyebrows, forcing him to continue. ‘It will be quicker for us if we all work to get the guns into position. I have no desire to be on the roadway in too much of the midday sun.’

‘Water,’ said Dilnot.

‘What?’

‘The town is well supplied with clean drinking water. Might I suggest, sir, that the provision of that will make matters easier, especially when the sun is at full strength. That and some biscuit. As for midday, I doubt we will reach our destination before it is the naval time for dinner.’

‘Make it so, Mr Dilnot,’ Pearce replied, adding, as the redcoat turned to issue orders, ‘and thank you for bringing to my attention something I should have thought of myself.’

‘Sir.’

‘Would it be possible to dispense with that too, Mr Dilnot? It is a courtesy only.’

That brought forth a smile. ‘Happily, Mr Pearce.’

‘Should you perceive any other errors of mine, please feel free to point them out. A naval officer ashore cannot surely be as knowledgeable as a soldier.’ Pearce then indicated two of the largest and most muscular soldiers. ‘We want two levers in their hands, long ones, to use as rear brakes. I fear the oxen will need regular rest, too.’

‘And the men, Mr Pearce, let us not forget the men.’

It was a bedraggled bunch that finally made it to the redoubt facing the so-called Army of Italy. The oxen had found the
pavé
streets of Toulon hard enough, but they soon ran out, and it became a struggle on rutted tracks that had dried hard throughout the summer months, tracks that would become quagmires at the first serious downpour. Pearce had occasion to be thankful for both Dilnot, who marshalled his men well, and the coxswain from HMS
Swiftsure
. Robertshaw knew what to do without detailed instructions and frequent halts were required so that the sailors could rig lines with the stouter cable that helped the oxen on the steeper parts of the ascent, the two men at the rear also aiding that when they halted by anchoring the wheels.

By the time they were halfway to the top, Pearce had removed his heavy blue coat and asked Dilnot if he wished to do the same with his red one, so that they became, even if their shirts were linen rather than flannel, indistinguishable from their men. And taking Dilnot’s point, Pearce made sure that everyone drank copiously, though the sailors were very vocal regarding the lack of the small beer to which they were accustomed, and adamant that it should have been replaced by wine.

Pearce, nursing the dull ache of a hangover, was quite brusque. ‘I will tell you, and I have walked further and in hotter weather than this, that fresh
water is best. Now belay your moaning, and rig the lines for the next section of track.’

Finally they created the rise and got onto flattish ground, their speed much more satisfying as they approached the rear entry port to the redoubt. The fellow who greeted them, another naval lieutenant, had no idea, with their coats off, that he was addressing officers of any service. He began to berate the entire party for what he saw as their slow pace and general appearance. Pearce, that dull ache of a hangover adding to his irritation, positively yelled at him, demanding the date of his commission, which was considerably longer than his own. So he lied, added four years to the date of his elevation, declined to give his name and left the poor fellow mumbling apologies for his presumption.