The Admirals' Game (8 page)

Yet that damned court martial, if represented to those same correspondents in the wrong way, could entirely undermine his position. If Hood carried out his threat to add a reservation on the judgement to his confirmation – no doubt laying all the possible questions at the Hotham door – it would almost certainly prompt a degree of curiosity by the Board of Admiralty, of which Hood was still, albeit
in absentia
, a member. It might even develop into a full enquiry if Hood felt the need to ensure his innocence in any wrongdoing.

If anyone had said to William Hotham's face that he was a political admiral he would have happily accepted the designation; to him, all admirals were politicians, the only difference being the degree of their ability to navigate the shark-infested waters of that dubious world. Hood was a dyed-in-the-wool Tory, he, Hotham, was a loyal Whig, but enough of a pragmatist to see why the Duke of Portland had decided to join the government; this damned French Revolution had to be defeated before
it consumed the whole of Europe with its pernicious doctrines. Party politics could be put in abeyance until that was achieved.

Being a self-confessed politician meant his mind would not long chase a problem; instead he began to look for solutions. First he had to disappoint Barclay, but that he would do in such a way as to ensure Hood would bear the brunt of that man's anger, and in such a way as to limit the damage to his own standing. The next thing he needed was intimate knowledge of the truth: what had actually happened that night Barclay had gone pressing men in the Liberties of the Savoy? Looking at his copy of the transcript, one name leapt out at him. He could not ask Ralph Barclay for candour, that would be too demeaning in the request, and he doubted if it would be entirely honest in the explanation.

‘Willis,' he called, and in seconds his first secretary appeared. ‘I have a mind to ask Captain Barclay and his wife to dinner.'

‘Would tonight be suitable, sir? You are hosting a dinner for General O'Hara and the newly arrived officers from Gibraltar.'

Hotham nodded slowly, then added, ‘And since one of Captain Barclay's midshipmen is nephew to his wife, it might be a kindness to have him along too.'

‘I have no desire to dine with an admiral,' Emily insisted, still flustered to find her husband visiting her at the hospital.

Given his duties ashore and hers here, they now saw very little of each other, which suited Emily if it did not Ralph Barclay. In his mind she was the author of all their disagreements, having completely forfeited what he saw as her first duty: loyalty to him as his spouse. It never entered his head that Emily's view was the polar opposite; she saw his behaviour as shameful, his many deceits as contemptible, and the naval practices he not only defended, but as she had observed, was happy to apply, as bordering on barbarism.

‘I fear, Mrs Barclay, I must insist. You may not appreciate how necessary it is for a man of my rank to have a senior officer as a sponsor in the service, but I do, and since Sir William has undertaken that role, for you to refuse to attend would be nothing short of an insult, and moreover one that could harm my standing in his eyes.'

‘I can plead an indisposition.'

‘You cannot.'

‘We shall see if that is the case.'

For the first time in their married life, Ralph Barclay treated her with the same lack of consideration he habitually used with other people. In his mind, at that precise moment, he saw himself as being too indulgent of his wife, and because of that he had allowed her to misunderstand the duties that went with married life. He would not beat her, though there was no law that barred him from doing so, but he would command her; it had to be. There was no other way for a man and wife to
coexist if the lesser female party was not going to comply with the standard expected of them.

‘This discussion is at an end. I am your husband and you will obey me. The cutter will come for you at one of the clock. Shenton will have ready your wardrobe so you may select what you are going to wear. Dinner is at three and we must be aboard HMS
Britannia
well before that time. Please be advised, my dear, that my men will be instructed to ensure your return to HMS
Brilliant
, and as their captain they will obey me.'

For a moment, as a way of softening his stricture, Ralph Barclay was tempted to tell her of his proposed promotion, but he decided to do as he had so far: keep it to a more suitable moment – she would surely see in that a vindication of his actions. Not that he thought one was required, but to a person not familiar with the ways of the Navy, and especially to a woman, it might prove necessary. No, he would wait and let it be a surprise, perhaps coming from the lips of Sir William Hotham and, in a cabin not dissimilar in size to the one to which she would be moving, Emily would begin to comprehend things that were to her, now, mysterious.

‘Sir William had also, as a courtesy to you, asked that we take along Toby.'

With a clear notion of the way the youngster had avoided her recently, Emily replied. ‘I doubt he will want to come.'

‘Nonsense. You may have little idea of the flattering nature of such an invitation, but I am sure your nephew
is somewhat wiser. Midshipmen not serving on flagships are rarely issued with such a chance to impress.'

‘You are sure Toby will impress?'

Ralph Barclay misunderstood the irony in his wife's tone. ‘He will, as long as he behaves himself.'

‘I fear, my dear Emily,' said Heinrich Lutyens, ‘that I must advise you to do as you are asked.'

‘So you, too, subscribe to the notion of woman as an inferior being.'

‘You will be telling me that you were not raised to accept as true that very estate.'

Those words prompted a wan smile from Emily Barclay; she had indeed been so raised. Had not her mother deferred to her father in all things, even when he had patently been in the wrong, using subterfuge to gain her ends rather than confrontation? That had been the advice she had been given before her nuptials – how to get her own way while seeming to succumb to the male viewpoint – along with the information that men had weaknesses of a carnal nature, which must be indulged whenever the demand was made.

She was no stranger to the vision of procreation; there had been enough of that going on at home in the chicken run, the pig pens and the paddock to make it plain to even the blind. Odd that taking for granted what animals did, never translated into an early explanation of what would be required of her. She had wondered why her mother had waited till the night before her wedding to
tell her certain things. After the wedding night she knew very well; it had been damned unpleasant, and although since then she had approached her husband's advances with less in the way of fear, it could hardly be said to be an uplifting obligation.

‘The Navy is a small world, my dear,' Lutyens continued. ‘Your relations with your husband are, I should think, already common knowledge.'

‘You mean I am the subject of gossip?'

‘Very likely, and to avoid being more so, indeed to avoid the unwelcome attentions of those who might seek to take advantage of it, for there are as many rakes in the service as there are in other walks of life, I should go with your husband, and behave in a manner to allay such talk.'

‘You are a cruel friend, Heinrich.'

‘But I am a friend, Emily.'

In the fresh dawn light, on the quayside, the two British officers were surprised to be greeted by a guard of honour, the salute of weapons executed in a disciplined manner neither man associated with the present soldiery of the French Republic. The fellow who brought them to the salute was another, more senior lieutenant, and he did so, hat raised high, with a civility more redolent of the old days of the monarchy. He also, to Digby's delight, spoke very reasonable English.

‘It is my pleasure, messieurs, to ask you to accompany me to the headquarters of the port captain, where my superiors await your attendance.'

‘Obliged,' Digby replied, indicating the fellow should proceed, this while the cutter that had fetched them hauled clear of the shore.

As they moved along the stone quay, their guard of
honour, in no way threateningly, lined up on either side, and with the same level of correct order, proceeded to march, muskets at the slope. Being a port dating back to Roman times the alleyways leading off the quay were dark and narrow, but the buildings facing the sea were substantial and spoke of a degree of prosperity. The number of people idling about surprised Pearce until he reasoned that with a British sloop sitting off the coast, few of the fishing vessels had put to sea.

The lieutenant, having indicated they had arrived by calling halt to the guard, led them up a set of stone steps into the cool hallway of the port captain's headquarters, both men requiring a moment to adjust their eyes to the interior darkness after the strong outdoor sunlight, until they were invited to enter a well-lit room overlooking the harbour. The two French captains were there, in full dress, hats included, standing and waiting for these emissaries and as soon as they entered the room, the escorting lieutenant exited, closing the door behind him.

‘Messieurs,' said the older of the two, speaking French, nothing on his lined and weathered face denoting either fear or caution. ‘Allow me to introduce to you Lieutenant Bertin who commands
Vestale
. I am Capitaine Foureaux of
Bandine
. I have reason to believe you carry a message to us from your superiors occupying Toulon.'

It was Pearce who had to reply, introducing both himself and Digby before handing over the satchel. Foureaux took out the letters and examined the superscriptions, but he did not break the seals.

‘I think I can guess what these contain.'

‘It would be as well to read them, sir,' Pearce replied, ‘then you will understand the true depth of the sentiments expressed.'

Foureaux nodded, but he did not speak for a long while. Asking pardon, he began a whispered conversation with his colleague, and that became rather animated, hinting at a disagreement, which had Digby seeking a
sotto voce
explanation, which Pearce could not provide. Whatever, when it ended, Foureaux went to a desk and picked up a blunt-looking knife. He was just about to break the seal on the first letter when the sound came through the door of some kind of commotion, raised and demanding voices. Frozen, with his hand in mid-act, Foureaux was quick to hide the letter-opener, and it was obvious to Pearce, given the way the blood drained from his face, that the sight of the man who occupied the doorway, a burly and scarred individual in the uniform of the National Guard, was not one he welcomed.

‘I bring a message from the
hôtel de ville
,' the man barked. ‘You and these two Englishmen are to attend there at once.'

‘A message from whom?'

‘Commissioner Barras.'

Foureaux moved between Pearce and the doorway, the letters behind his back, waved in such an abrupt manner that there seemed little alternative but to take them. Digby was looking at his subordinate, wondering what was afoot, and left in ignorance by a man who still had
no idea. But he did hear the French captain's reply.

‘There is no need for such a summons, citizen. I was about to suggest that is where we must go.'

‘Glad to hear it,' replied the messenger. ‘But I wouldn't delay, Citizen Barras does not like to be kept waiting, and he's the easy-going one.'

‘Who,' Pearce asked, as the head disappeared, ‘is Citizen Barras?'

He was talking to Foureaux's back; he and Bertin were already making their way out of the door, though the voice floated back to him. ‘A man we must not keep waiting.'

‘Pearce?'

‘I would say, sir, that if we are allowed, we should immediately make our way back to HMS
Faron
.'

‘From your tone,' Digby replied, ‘I think you do not see that as likely.'

The same escort of marines awaited them on the quay, but this time they were headed by the burly national guardsman, who ordered them to take station around all four naval officers, before the whole party set off, eventually turning into a reasonably wide thoroughfare, which led towards the centre of the town. That soon opened out into the kind of open piazza so beloved by the ancients, dominated on one side by a cathedral, on the other by a large square-fronted edifice, with iron gates, flying on a flagpole the tricolour of the Revolution.

Naturally, the sight of four naval officers, two in the dark-blue coats of King George's Navy, added to the
interest created by the mere presence of a British vessel in the bay, and this ensured a lively and curious crowd were there to dog their heels, making noisy, yet not threatening calls to be informed what was afoot. The escort was halted by the gateway and the quartet were led into the atrium of what had to be the
hôtel de ville
, to be greeted by a trio of men in high hats, black coats and breeches, shiny black boots, and the huge colourful red, white and blue sashes of the Revolution round their waist.

Pearce knew what they were; he had met one of their number in La Rochelle, and it was not a sight to cheer him. Representatives on mission of the Committee of Public Safety, they were the emissaries of the body politic, made up of regicides, who now ran France. To a man they were smirking, as though bearing witness to some kind of theatrical farce, and he was also regretting the way he had edged Digby into coming ashore, for in dealing with people like these, his own trust in the protection provided by his truce flag was less than certain.

‘Please, Capitaine Foureaux, introduce our visitors.'

The one who had spoken was, Pearce guessed, around forty, somewhat corpulent, with a face and manner that seemed too benign for the office he occupied. The other two, although very different, conformed to type, one a swarthy individual with a curved nose and black unblinking eyes, the other a young and pallid-looking fellow, tall and skinny, who looked, with his parchment skin, like a wrongly dressed priest.

Foureaux obliged with the introductions, and unbidden, named the men of whom he was clearly in some trepidation. ‘Commissioner of the Army, Barras, representatives on mission, Messieurs Fréron and Robespierre.'

That name made Pearce look closely; he knew of a Robespierre from his time in Paris, a dry and atheistic lawyer who was one of the stars of the Jacobin Club, as well as a radical proponent of outré ideas in the National Convention. He had become more than that now, he was the leading light of the Committee of Public Safety, so this fellow could not be him. Besides he was too young, but he must be, given it was not a common name, a relation of some kind, and that was a worrying thought.

No one moved for half a minute, until the Frenchman called Barras held out his hand, forcing Pearce to hand over the letters which could well be their death warrant. He gave over the satchel as well, on the very good grounds that it would cease to be an encumbrance if he had to try and defend himself, though both he and Digby, as befitted the flag under which they operated, were unarmed.

‘Pearce?'

Digby had given him a curious look, and a very slight gesture of the head to indicate the black-clad trio.

‘Say nothing, sir, just wait.'

The seals on the letters were broken and the contents read in turn, with much nodding of the head and murmuring to each other. When they finished and looked
at the two British officers, their faces had changed; from looking bland they now looked angry.

‘You have not read these, Capitaine Foureaux?' asked Barras, without looking at that officer.

‘No.'

The man smiled, which was chilling, not cheerful. ‘You would like the contents. Milord Hood offers you amnesty, while the traitor Trogoff invites you to take your frigates to Toulon. The third one is curious, it—'

Robespierre butted in, which produced a look on the face of Barras that underlined the interruption was not welcome. That led Pearce to wonder if there was a competition for supremacy in this trio of probable regicides. If there was, could that help him and Digby?

‘It is from the Spaniard, Admiral Lángara,' Robespierre spat, ‘and it is addressed to General Lapoype and the Army of Italy, instructing them, for their own good, to stay out of that country.'

‘The Revolution goes where it pleases,' said Fréron, in a voice that made it sound like a mantra.

‘One wonders,' Robespierre demanded, his voice as cold as the expression on his pallid face, ‘how this missive was supposed to be delivered. I cannot see it in the hands of a British officer being handed over to the general. Perhaps they felt so sure of you, Capitaine, or maybe it was you, Bertin, to deliver it for them. Indeed, it seems to me there is a conspiracy here.'

‘Did you have any communication with Toulon before these came?' asked Barras, waving the letters.

‘None!'

‘That I find hard to believe,' Robespierre said, with Fréron nodding at the statement.

‘I think,' Barras insisted, ‘any examination of the motives of these two officers can wait. The question we must deal with now, is what to do with our two visitors.'

‘The guillotine can take care of that.'

If Digby knew no French, he knew that word. Pearce felt rather than saw his body jerk.

Barras turned to Robespierre, his face questioning. ‘But, Augustine, they have come under a flag of truce.'

‘They have come as spies,' Robespierre spat. ‘And they should die like spies. Fréron?'

For the first time the swarthy face of that representative lost the look of supreme confidence; clearly he detected a difference and did not want to have to decide on whom to support.

‘Augustine,' Barras said again, in an avuncular way that elicited an angry glare from the subject. ‘You are young, and you are properly zealous, a good son of the Revolution. But listen to a man who has served as a soldier…'

‘I recall, Citizen,' Robespierre replied in an icy tone, ‘that you were once happy to answer to the title of the Vicomte de Barras.'

‘We cannot help our birth as, no doubt, your brother will tell you. What we can help is our devotion to the cause. I have no doubt of yours, just as your brother, Maximilien, has no doubt of mine.'

The response was loud, and accompanied by a pointing finger. ‘I don't think he would hesitate to decapitate this pair.'

‘No.'

That was sharp, and designed to brook no argument, causing Augustine Robespierre to suck in a lot of air to stop himself from replying with an explosive rejoinder.

‘A flag of truce,' Barras insisted, ‘is as respected by the armies of the Revolution as it is by any other force.'

‘The notion is outmoded, monarchical.'

‘No, Augustine. Do you think we can execute these two officers without adding to the impression we are barbarians?'

‘Who would know?' asked Fréron, obviously the junior partner in the trio.

‘The world would know,' Barras replied in a weary tone, ‘and before the week is out. We are the Revolution, as is every citizen. Let us prove to the world that our cause will take life when the need is just, and show clemency where that is due.'

Pearce was full of admiration for Digby, who must have, in some way, picked up the sense of the debate, without in any way being sure which way it was going. But he kept quiet, said nothing, just stood still with a look of utter insouciance on his face, as though those discussing their fate could do what they liked. It was an act, Pearce knew – for the very simple reason of his knowledge of his own fears – but, by God, it was a good one.

‘I will be interested,' Robespierre said, his face slightly
petulant, ‘in what my brother thinks when I write and tell him.'

‘Fréron,' Barras growled, ‘let us gather a crowd to witness the perfidy of these English officers. It will do them good to see the face of their enemies. And now, Augustine, while our good friend is about that, I will educate you in the way to treat the officers of an enemy. Messieurs, I doubt you have breakfasted, so follow me.'

Taken into an anteroom, there lay before them a table well set with food: fresh bread, local fish, figs and strong, hard sausage. The wine was young and rough, but pleasant nevertheless, as Barras conversed with Pearce in a way that allowed him to translate for Digby, all this while a pinch-faced Augustine Robespierre looked on, eating sparingly and drinking nothing. They learnt that Barras had been a soldier, had served in India at the defence of Pondicherry in the Second Mysore War.

‘We were, of course, treated with every courtesy by those who took the city, allowed to march out with our arms and provided with ships to bring us home.' He looked at Robespierre then. ‘These are norms of behaviour, messieurs, are they not? War is barbarous enough without those who choose a career in arms descending to the level of the beast.'

Pearce could only half listen to the growling between Barras and Robespierre, being too busy translating Barras's story for Digby, but it seemed Barras was assuring the younger man he would be satisfied before the day was out.

‘I went back to India,' Barras continued, ‘but it was
soon obvious that the land was lost to France, so I returned and left the Army.'