The Price of Glory (9 page)

Gilbert Gabriel came aft with Nathan's coffee. He took it gratefully and carried it over to the rail. It was almost low tide and the waters had retreated from the shores of the gulf to expose a large quantity of mud, among which a number of wading birds picked their delicate feet and grubbed for sustenance. He turned his face into the rain, squinting up the length of the river, a long finger pointing north. He had sent Howard and Whiteley up there three days ago in one of the cutters, with a quantity of marines and Bennett as their guide and translator, to make contact with the Chouans at Auray and report on the situation there. Since then, not a word. He anguished now that he had placed too much reliance on the American's version of events in the town and that it might still be in Republican hands. But it was hard to know what else he could have done. He could hardly have gone charging up there with the whole squadron, not knowing what he might find at the end of it.

He missed Tully, who made a perfect sounding board for his anxieties, though on this occasion there were certain of them he might wish to keep to himself for all Tully's discretion. Certainly, in his own mind, Nathan knew he was shy of meeting with the Chouan leader, Charette, and thereby confirming without a shadow of doubt that the woman who fought by his side was Sara—
his
Sara. La Renarde.

A sudden flash from out of the darkening sky, followed after a few moments by a clap of thunder. And now the rain came down in earnest, dancing upon the deck and churning the waters of the Gulf into a violent froth. Nathan turned from the rail.

“I am going below to write up my journal,” he informed Lieutenant Balfour, for want of a better excuse, though neither excuse nor explanation were needed. “
I am going below to cut my throat,
” he might have said, and Balfour would have responded with the same indifferent nod, touching his hat.

Yet even in the depths of his misery he could not help but wonder what was for breakfast and whether it would be long in coming. He raised his voice.

“Gabriel! Gilbert Gabriel there!”

The presence loomed, never far from his side.

“Sir?”

Gabriel had been his father's servant when Nathan was a boy. He had taught him to load and fire his first fowling piece and tanned his hide on more than one occasion for some mischief considerably less ambitious than highway robbery.

“Would you have another coffee on the go, Gabriel? And I believe I will have breakfast now rather than later.”

Nathan turned guiltily away, not wishing to consider the negotiations that were sure to be involved in fulfilling such an outrageous request. Back in the privacy of Balfour's cabin, he seated himself at the tiny desk, rolled back his cuff, and took up his pen:

Friday, July 3rd. Rain.

He stared at this startling revelation for some considerable time without adding to it. He felt like a schoolboy compelled to write some dreary composition. Verse was more appropriate to his present mood.

Rain, tippling from the morning sky

And drumming upon the taut canvas

Of my vexéd mind

As dimly I hear the vixen's love-tortured cry …

Love-tortured. No. Something else, something less maudlin yet expressive of sexual anguish and grief … He set it aside for future consideration and returned to the more mundane matter of his journal. Their lordships, who might one day read it, were not, as a general rule, enamoured of verse, not in a captain's journal. Nor, so far as he was aware, of sexual anguish.

Light wind NNW
.

It was the duty of every officer in the service, above the rank of midshipman, to keep a record of their commission. Indeed, the lieutenants were obliged to satisfy their lordships, or at least their lordships' underlings, that they had fulfilled their obligations in this regard, and have it attested by signature, before they were permitted to draw their pay. So the voyages of the
Unicorn
were documented severally beside the official version recorded in the ship's log, which was kept by the ship's master and tended to be less imaginative: though in truth imagination did not figure largely in any of them. Nor, as general rule, were they ever read. They were only read if something exceptional occurred, such as victory, or defeat, or mutiny. But then the journals were transformed from essays in banality to loaded weapons that could be used against one's fellow officers. Or oneself.

Naturally, when anything untoward did occur, there was a degree of collusion in their composition: a collective instinct to tell the same tale, based on the principle that they either stood—or hanged—together. Nathan did not encourage this propensity but nor was he averse to it, if it was to his own advantage. And there was the rub. He could not bring himself to examine his officers' reports before they were submitted; nor influence them, as he knew other commanders did. He knew he might already be facing serious charges for his conduct in the Caribbean. He was accused of recklessness, of endangering his ship. And now there was this business in the mouth of Morbihan: the grounding of the
Unicorn
and the “arrest” of the Chevalier de Batz … cousin to the Comte de Puisaye, commander of the Royalist troops at Quiberon.

Nathan put his hand to his head and massaged the ache about his temples. He had already written up a report of the incident and sent it by the
Unicorn
's cutter to Commodore Warren—considerably sweetened, of course, by news of the taking of the two forts. But he wondered what his own officers would have to say about it in their individual reports.

It was unlike him to be so anxious. He shook his head to dismiss the demons that lurked there and dipped the pen once more into the ink.

Only to be saved by the clatter of feet down the ladder in the companionway and the rapping of a midshipman's knuckle—it was odd how you always knew it was a midshipman—upon the panels of the door.

Midshipman Lamb, to be precise, with Mr. Balfour's respects and the news that the cutter was sighted, bearing down upon them under full sail from out of the Auray.

“So what kept you?” Nathan demanded as he scrutinised the faces of the two officers in the privacy of his cabin. “It cannot be more than four hours to Auray with the tide.”

“I beg your pardon, sir, but we were detained by the enemy.” Major Howard was as laconic as ever, if a mite less dapper. His uniform was soiled and rent and he did not look to have washed or shaved for several days. Whiteley looked dead on his feet.

Nathan gestured for them to be seated and they sank wearily into the cushions of the bench under the stern window.

“Bennett reported that Auray had fallen to the Chouans,” Nathan began.

Howard nodded. “So it had, but we had not been there above an hour when we came under fire from a strong force of Republicans that had marched up from Vannes. We were under siege for two days.” He drew a hand over his unshaven jaw. “Finally, the Chouans decided to make a break to the west, towards Quiberon, and we fought our way out by the river.”

“But …” Nathan struggled to make sense of this. “What of the invasion force? Has it not advanced inland?”

The two officers exchanged glances.

“We are informed not.”

“Informed?”

“By Charette—the Chouan commander at Auray.”

“But what—” It came out as a croak, his mouth was so dry. He cleared his throat and started again. “But why have the Royalists not advanced inland? We were informed the enemy had very little force in the region.”

Howard seemed unusually reticent. Nathan glanced at Whiteley. He wished he could have talked with him privately for there was some mystery here and Whiteley would have been less cautious about revealing it.

“Tell me what you know,” he instructed Howard. “At least, what you have heard. I will make no report of it unless it is necessary. But it is important I know exactly what is happening so far as the land operations are concerned.”

“Well,” Howard assembled his thoughts. You could almost hear them creaking. “This came from Charette and I am not sure he is to be trusted. He has … well, he is a man of strong opinions and his political views, that is … I believe he is not entirely in sympathy with the Royalist cause—at least as it is represented at Quiberon.”

Nathan waited patiently.

“However, he reports that there is dissent in the Royalist command. Some are for marching inland; others for remaining at Quiberon until there is more welcome news.”

“News?” Nathan screwed up his face. “News of what?”

“Of what is happening elsewhere. In Paris, in particular.”

“In Paris? Paris is two hundred miles from here and unless I am misinformed it is ruled by the Republicans. What has Paris to do with the situation here in Brittany ?”

“I am only reporting what we heard, sir.”

“I am sorry. Go on.”

“We were told that the invasion was timed to coincide with an uprising in Paris, and the overthrow of the Republican government by Royalists in the capital.”

“I see.” Nathan wondered if he did. Was the invasion meant to draw troops from the capital? A mere diversion to the main thrust of the attack? But this was political work and it was too much to expect that the people fighting on the ground would be informed of it.

“I take it nothing further has been heard of this ‘uprising'?' “

“No, sir. Charette—and those of his followers we spoke with—I had the impression they do not look to Paris for relief. Or much else in this world. For them, Paris is the source of all evil. A Hell on Earth, entirely occupied by demons.”

A knock came upon the door and Gabriel entered with two of his lackeys bearing coffee and a large skillet of ham and eggs, pork sausage and hunks of fresh-baked bread. At Nathan's invitation the two officers fell upon it as if they had not eaten for days. Nathan held back though his stomach growled wolfishly.

“So.” He was battling to come to terms with all of this, and what it meant for him and his small force in the Gulf of Morbihan. “Tell me about the situation in Auray, when you arrived?”

Howard paused in the act of forking half a sausage into his mouth and laid it down with reluctance. “The Chouans held the town right enough. I would say there were above a thousand of them posted about the place.” He looked to Whiteley who confirmed this estimate with a nod. “But no more than half were armed. That is, with proper weapons: muskets or fowling pieces. Most had no more than a scythe or a pitchfork. Or a sling. We saw a lot of slings. They are very good at using them. They can bring down a bird in flight.” His voice had resumed its familiar sardonic tone but he caught Nathan's eye and changed his tune. “They are not lacking in spirit, though they could use a little discipline. I would not care to lead them on an open field but I understand that is not their way, to fight in the open.”

Nor would it be mine, reflected Nathan privately, if all I had to fight with was a sling and a scythe. He thought with regret of all the modern muskets stored in the holds of his gunboats.

“Well, they are a peasant army,” he reminded Howard. “We knew this—that is why we came here. And what of the force that is opposed to them?”

“About twice that number. Well-armed and equipped. And well-disciplined so far as we could tell. They have a number of field pieces. And they say more troops, including regulars, are closing in from Vannes.”

“Who says?”

“Well, the Republicans. They sent a deputation, under flag of truce, to demand the town's surrender. On terms. Or there would be no quarter, they said. Charette declined. Just after that he made the decision to break out—and we took our chance on the river.”

“So Auray is not cut off entirely ?”

“They had covered the river with field pieces but it was dark and we went with the current. And they were somewhat distracted by Charette and his men.”

“Even so, you did well,” Nathan assured him. He had changed his mind about Howard. “Now you had better finish eating and then look to your men while I consider what is to be done here.”

When they had gone, Nathan sent for Bennett. He looked as dishevelled and as weary as the two officers but there was something else in his expression. An element of defiance—and barely constrained anger.

“Well,” Nathan began, uneasily, “this is a fine kettle of fish.”

“You could say that.”

Whatever else the service had taught Bennett, it was not how to address an officer. Nathan tried not to resent it. He rather doubted if Bennett would give a damn if he did.

“Did you speak with Charette?”

“I did.”

“And what did he make of the situation? I mean with the Royalists at Quiberon.”

“You want me to give you his exact words?”

“A summary will do.”

“He thought them a bunch of cowards and whoresons.”

“I see. And the talk of an uprising in Paris?”

“Hogwash. Besides, even if it were true, why should it stop them marching inland?” Nathan had no answer to that. “Except that they have no stomach for a fight and wish to stay as close to the sea as they can—and the ships that will take them back to England.”

“But it makes no sense,” Nathan protested. “Why would they come all this way to sit around on the shores of Quiberon until we take them off again?”

“Maybe they thought to hear the government had fallen and they could march to Paris like conquering heroes.” Bennett wiped a grimy hand over his face. It did nothing to improve his looks or his temper. Exhaustion was etched in every feature. “Only it has not happened and now they are shitting their pants at the thought of Hoche heading their way.”

“Hoche?”

“Lazare Hoche. Republican general. Best they've got. Ex-corporal. Beat the Prussians on the Rhine in '93. Now he is on his way here—with the Army of the West.”

“You appear remarkably well informed.”