An Ill Wind by David Donachie Read Free Book Online

marine a few minutes later, ‘you said nothing about that artillery position over yonder.’
    Taking the glass, the marine followed the line of Pearce’s finger, and once he had adjusted the magnification he swore. ‘By damn, we’ve been humbugged; that is new.’
    ‘Is that position as dangerous as I think it is?’
    ‘Lethal if it is manned and equipped, sir, for we cannot withstand the shot that two separate batteries can pour into us, especially from that angle of fire, and hope to reply effectively. We would be obliged to shift fire from the causeway as well, and we would need round shot to seek to suppress this new fellow, which would reduce the effect of our grapeshot and make an infantry attack very much easier.’
    ‘As I suspected,’ Pearce replied.
    ‘How in the name of the devil did they get it up without us seeing anything?’
    ‘Don’t take it to heart,’ Pearce replied, peering at that solitary figure in the pale-blue greatcoat, who was still examining them. ‘Their artillery specialist has done it all over the perimeter. Do you think that might be the very fellow standing there?’
    Swinging the glass round, Driffield replied, ‘It could be. He’s certainly a new face to me.’
    ‘How long could we hold, given this situation?’ Driffield looked at him strangely and it was clear he saw no need for the question, just as Pearce suspectedhe was supposed to know the answer. ‘I ask only for clarification.’
    ‘Sense dictates we spike the guns now, sir, and run, if we do not wish to be buried in the earth we threw up to protect ourselves, to then be bayoneted, if we can still have breath.’
    Pearce’s response was acerbic. ‘With the less than fit men I brought up last night, that is not an attractive option.’
    ‘My marines and I can hold for a time, Lieutenant Pearce, but we will spill much of our blood doing so.’
    ‘Bravely said, Mr Driffield, but hardly a pleasant alternative.’
    ‘It is a necessary one, sir.’
    ‘No,’ Pearce snapped. ‘Michael, find me something white and a pole to attach it to.’
    ‘You are planning to surrender?’ Driffield demanded, clearly shocked.
    ‘No, Mr Driffield, I am planning to talk.’

CHAPTER FOUR
    Making his way forward, Pearce could not avoid observing the smoke rising from the town of Toulon, his eye drawn to the tall and very obvious masts of ships still in the harbour, wondering why they had not been destroyed. The operation of the previous night, a joint Spanish and British affair, had that as its purpose: to render useless, by burning, the remaining elements of the French fleet before they could fall into revolutionary hands. If those masts were still visible, it was likely the hulls beneath them were also intact, which would mean that somehow the exploit had failed. For all he might like to, he could not continue to look at that and wonder: he must deal with what was at hand.
    Being tall, John Pearce had been acutely aware since reaching adulthood that, when it came to relations with his shorter brethren, it was best, if he had no desire tocause an upset, not to stand too close, lest in towering over them he set their hackles to rise. The man he was approaching – Michael O’Hagan and the truce flag at his heels – was small of stature, anyway, and slim of build, but that was accentuated by his bicorn hat, and even more by his open greatcoat, long enough to touch the toecaps of his knee-length boots. Underneath that he wore a uniform jacket over white breeches, with tabs identifying him as an officer of artillery.
    Behind him, in ragged lines, stood the unkempt French infantry, muskets at the rest, with another cockaded officer, bearing a sword, at their head, this one with a tricolour sash as well. To the rear of that stood the redoubt of Les Sablettes, with the snouts of six cannons poking out through the sandbagged embrasures.
    ‘I hope in this white flag lark, John-boy, we will not be putting ourselves at the same risk as the