The Flag of Freedom (12 page)

They had met in Paris in '93, when Nathan had been sent there on an assignment by William Pitt. She was the widow of a French aristocrat – an ancient roué called Alexander Tour de l'Auvergne, Count of Turenne, who had died in exile with the French court at Koblenz – and she and Nathan had become lovers, only to be separated by the politics to which his mother thought him ‘indifferent'. Sara had endured a great many hardships and had narrowly escaped death on the guillotine, but now she and her young son, Alex, had found refuge in England.

Though Nathan had not formally asked her to marry him, there was an understanding between them. But he had heard nothing from her for almost a year.

He was certain she would have written, if only to assure him of her wellbeing, and had persuaded himself that her letters must have gone astray – his own movements being somewhat erratic – and, of course, any that had been sent to the
Unicorn
in his absence would have been lost with the ship.

But it had been a nagging concern. And now there was this solitary, infuriatingly brief reference to her in his mother's letter.

It was so typical of his mother that it was only with the greatest restraint that he had prevented himself from tearing the letter up in a fury of frustration and scattering the pieces to the wind.

Instead, he had carried it around with him ever since, reading it over and over again and tormenting himself with his imaginings. What did his mother mean by
now that Sara has moved in with Godwin and Mary?

By Mary, she must mean Mary Wollstonecraft, who
had known Sara in Paris. But who was this Godwin? Could he have taken up with Mary? It seemed unlikely, for poor Mary was fatally attached to an American called Gilbert Imlay, who was, not to put too fine a point on it, an adventurer, a scoundrel and a spy. He and Mary had gone through some form of marriage ceremony, of doubtful legality, in Paris, and they had a child – little Fanny. But when Mary had discovered that Imlay was involved with another woman – an actress from a strolling theatre company – she had tried to kill herself. Twice. If she had now taken up with another man – this Godwin – he could hardly be worse than Imlay. But what part had Sara to play in the ménage?

Nathan knew he had no right to be jealous, but he could not help himself.

Not that he could do anything about it, of course, stuck here on the Rock of Gibraltar, with the apes.

There had been no news of his court martial, nor indeed of any formal charge brought against him, either by the Admiral or anyone else. It was the opinion of Dr Moll that no such charge would be brought. There was a widespread feeling in the fleet that he had been made a scapegoat for the failure of the attack on Cadiz. And that far from being guilty of cowardice or mutiny, he had acquitted himself with considerable merit. In the chaplain's opinion, the Admiral would not risk putting his judgement to the public inspection of a court martial. Doubtless, after leaving Nathan to kick his heels for a few weeks on the Rock of Gibraltar, he would quietly permit him to resume his duties.

But the chaplain knew a great deal less about Admirals than he did about swallows. And this particular example
of the species was as well-known for his obduracy as for his severity especially when he considered his authority to be in question. Besides, Nathan had no duties to resume, not as the Captain of a ship. He might stay kicking his heels in Gibraltar until the end of the war.

And if he was not guilty of cowardice, he could certainly be accused of disrespect.

He had taken the reluctant step of sending a letter to the Admiral, expressing his contrition for having written to him in such a manner. Thus far, there had been no reply. And as the weeks dragged into months, he began to feel he had been forgotten.

These melancholy thoughts were interrupted by the report of a cannon. Nathan stood up and walked to the edge of the cliff. He saw the situation at once. A vessel had entered the Bay of Algeciras and appeared to be heading towards the Rock, a cloud of smoke in her wake indicating that she had just fired one of her sternchasers. She was under a full press of sail to catch what little there was of the wind, but her obvious difficulty in this regard had attracted the attention of the Spanish gunboats based in Algeciras and they had put out to intercept her.

Another gun – and another puff of smoke from her stern. Then an answering discharge from the gunboats. Three of them. No, four, for there was another emerging from the haze to the west.

A great cloud of gulls rose from the Rock and set up a riot of complaint, and from down below among the fortifications along the harbour, Nathan heard the sound of a bugle and saw the red- and blue-coated figures of the garrison hurrying to their posts.

He was joined at the top of the cliff by Sir John and several of his fellows, who had emerged from their haunts within the Rock to watch the developing battle.

‘I think it is the
Fly
,' Nathan instructed them tersely. The
Fly
was the regular packet which plied between Gibraltar and Lisbon with despatches and mail and the occasional passenger. It also brought news from the Mediterranean fleet off Cadiz. Every time he saw her, Nathan hoped she would bring an order for his release. Or at least news from family and friends.

‘She is not going to make it,' he informed his companions, for it was clear, from the vantage of his great height, that the gunboats were gaining on her. ‘She will have to come up into the wind and bring her broadside to bear.'

The apes bowed to his greater expertise; certainly there was no observable sign of dissent. Sir John nodded gravely, and his followers emitted a series of frenzied hoots in anticipation of the manoeuvre that Nathan had predicted. He did not disclose to them his serious doubt as to whether the broadside of the
Fly
would be sufficient a discouragement to four determined aggressors.

Fortunately, help was at hand. Two British gunboats were issuing from the harbour to provide an escort. Nathan watched as they came up on each side of the brig, engaging her assailants with the 24-pounders in their bows. After a few more shots for the sake of appearances, the Spanish withdrew, helped on their way by a series of scornful hoots from the audience upon the heights – and the
Fly
scurried, with a maidenly swirl of her skirts, into the shelter of the harbour.

Nathan took a polite leave of his associates, and made his way down into the town via the Douglas Path. Even if the packet had letters for him they were unlikely to be delivered for at least a day or two, but she would almost certainly have brought some more general news from the fleet. And besides, it would soon be sunset, when he was obliged to return to his adequate, but by no means cheering accommodation in the Moorish castle.

He was in no particular hurry, however, and stopped to exchange pleasantries with two of the local labour force he encountered along the way, for he was putting his time on the Rock to good use by learning Spanish. So he was still some way from the foot of the hill when he saw the tall, gangling figure of the Reverend Dr Henry Moll climbing towards him. His face betrayed a measure of anxiety and he was out of breath.

‘I am sent by the Governor to find you,' he announced. ‘There is a gentleman come by the packet – an official of the Admiralty in London – who is most anxious to make your acquaintance. He is waiting for you at Governor House.'

Nathan tried to question him further but Dr Moll, normally the most garrulous individual Nathan had ever encountered, appeared strangely reluctant to engage in conversation. All he would say was that the Governor was in ‘a rare state' and had been ready to call out the guard until he himself had volunteered to find Nathan and bring him in.

Then, just as they entered the High Street, he said: ‘Be mindful of what you say, and whatever happens, do not lose your temper.'

G
overnor House had once been a convent, built for the Franciscans during the Spanish occupation. Nathan had been here on two previous occasions to dine with the Governor, who had until now showed him every courtesy, having made it clear that he thought the charges against Nathan were absurd. But there was another, more personal reason for his sympathy. They had both been prisoners of the French in Paris during the time of the Terror: Nathan on suspicion of being a British spy, General O'Hara after being taken captive during the Siege of Toulon. For a time they had even shared the same prison – the old Luxembourg Palace on the edge of Paris.

But there was no sign of the Governor now, only one of his less charming aides, who was pacing at the main entrance, clearly anxious for Nathan's delivery and
accompanied by two Marine sentries with muskets and bayonets. His greeting was terse and he hurried Nathan through the corridors and left him to kick his heels in a small, dark room with bars on the windows while he scurried off to ‘see if the Commissioner is ready to receive you'.

Nathan was left to brood on the significance of this development. It was clearly not auspicious. Fortunately he did not have long to wait. Within a few minutes the aide was back.

‘Follow me,' he snapped. It took all Nathan's self-control and his memory of the chaplain's injunction not to kick the man.

Another brisk march through the corridors and up a flight of stairs, the Marines clumping along behind in their heavy boots, as if Nathan might attempt escape. The aide knocked on a door and upon being given an invitation to enter, ushered the prisoner in before him.

‘Ah. Captain Peake.'

It was the man he had met in the Admiral's flagship. The
représentant en mission
with a face like the guillotine. Mr Scrope.

He was standing at the fireplace, still wearing his travelling cape and taking some refreshment, but at Nathan's entrance he crossed to the solitary desk and sat down, waving Nathan into one of two chairs set before it. His cape was a little stained with salt spray from his passage on the
Fly
but he still looked like a man who did not get out much.

‘I had expected to find you at the castle,' he said, ‘but I am told you are in the habit of taking a stroll at this time of the afternoon.'

Nathan chose to ignore the sarcasm and answered with his own.

‘I take what exercise I can,' he said. ‘In the circumstances.'

The meagre fire in the grate did little to take the chill off the atmosphere. Unless Nathan was much mistaken, this was known as the Nun's Room. He had been shown it by the Governor on his last visit here. According to legend, it contained the ghost of a nun who had been bricked up alive in one of the walls as punishment for attempting to run off with her lover – one of the Franciscan friars.

‘We reserve it for our more unwelcome guests,' the Governor had informed him, with a smile.

And yet the Commissioner's opening words were encouraging.

‘I am sent by their lordships to enquire into your recent report concerning French intentions in the Eastern Mediterranean,' he began, fixing a pair of spectacles upon his nose and searching among the papers set out on the desk. ‘Specifically, that General Bonaparte intends to invade Egypt – and use it as a stepping stone for an attack upon British India.' He looked up and fixed Nathan with his penetrating stare.

‘That is correct,' said Nathan. It was six months since he had sent the report but the wheels of the Admiralty moved slowly at times. It was not too late to act upon it. Bonaparte was, so far as he knew, still occupied with the Austrians in Northern Italy.

‘And the source of this information was a Colonel Junot, according to your report, an officer on the staff of General Bonaparte in Italy?'

‘He was under the impression that I was an American sea captain by the name of Turner,' Nathan felt it necessary to explain. ‘And sympathetic to the cause of the Revolution.'

Scrope still looked puzzled. ‘But I do not understand why he would disclose such a confidential piece of information to a mere acquaintance – do you?'

‘He was under a sense of obligation to me,' Nathan pointed out. ‘I had – inadvertently – saved his life. It is all in the report I sent to their lordships.'

What was
not
in the report was the fact that he had saved the life of General Bonaparte, too – when the latter was a penniless nobody in Paris. But this was not something that Nathan wished Scrope, or anyone else at the Admiralty, to know about. Bonaparte had achieved almost demonic status in London. His victories in Italy had shattered the coalition against the French. They had wrecked Pitt's careful diplomacy, left Britain almost isolated, and France as the dominant power on the continent. Nathan would hardly achieve the thanks of a grateful nation by admitting that he had once saved the man's life. Even inadvertently.

Scrope was shaking his head. ‘And when did he say this remarkable plan would go into effect?'

‘As soon as Bonaparte concluded his campaign in Italy. He planned to use the Ionian Islands as his base, and the Venetian fleet to ferry his troops to Egypt.'