“Captain Delancey is here,” murmured the flag-lieutenant. “Show him in,” replied Rear-Admiral Fothergill. “I only wish I had better news for him.” Delancey entered, bowed and stood at attention. He thought that Fothergill looked tired and old, perhaps disappointed over some expected appointment. Or was he disappointed on Delancey’s behalf?
“Good-morning, Delancey. Do please be seated.”
Sitting down, Delancey looked round the sparsely furnished office and saw that a chart of Malta and Gozo had been pinned to a board behind the Admiral’s chair.
“I regret to tell you that your very creditable action off Sicily has not gained you the promotion you deserve. As you know, Captain Doyle recovered sufficiently to take the Lapwing back to Plymouth. She was condemned after survey and broken up. Doyle retired and Mr Waring is now employed by the Transport Board. Their Lordships did not consider an action against an inferior force could justify more than one promotion, that of Mr Holroyd.”
“I quite understand, sir.” Delancey showed no emotion and had not, indeed, expected anything different.
“I dare say that they would have been more impressed had your losses been heavier.”
“It is more important to me that my men should trust me not to throw away their lives.”
“You are perfectly right. I remember, by the way, that you were yourself slightly wounded.”
“A mere scratch, sir. I never even noticed it until we had ceased fire. There’s hardly a scar now.”
“I am glad to hear that it healed, anyway. Well, I couldn’t secure your promotion but I can give you a change from escort work. Your next convoy will be destined for Malta and I shall authorise Captain Ball to retain the Merlin for service there, at least for the time being. I don’t think we have sent you there before?”
“No, sir.”
“So the time has come to look at the chart.” The Admiral rose and went to the board behind his chair:
“Here is Malta and here is Grand Harbour guarded by fortifications and overlooked by the city of Valletta—here. The adjacent island of Gozo has no harbour of comparable importance. But note the position of Malta, midway in the passage which connects the eastern with the western Mediterranean. Its strategic value is immense and Grand Harbour could be of great value to us.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You probably know what the situation is. Malta, you recall, was taken by General Bonaparte on his way to Egypt. After the destruction of the French fleet by Lord Nelson at Aboukir the isolated French garrison in Malta was in danger. The Maltese then rose against the French, raising some ten thousand men under the flag of Naples. Muskets and ammunition for about twelve hundred of these were landed by Sir James Saumarez. So the French, numbering some three thousand men under General Vaubois, withdrew to Valletta where they are still besieged. A small French force at M’dina (he pointed to the chart) was massacred and a yet smaller French garrison, in Gozo (he pointed again) capitulated to us. We now have a squadron blockading Valletta and Captain Ball is ashore, giving what help he can to the Maltese.
“Why doesn’t Vaubois surrender?”
“Well, you must remember that Malta was Bonaparte’s own conquest. He has since become virtual ruler of France. So we may assume that Vaubois has been ordered to hold out.”
“Can’t the Maltese storm Valletta?”
“The city is virtually impregnable. The fortifications built for the Knights of Malta are of gigantic size and fantastic strength. Something could be done by a regular army under an experienced general with heavy artillery and a corps of engineers. Come and look at the chart. . . . Here is Grand Harbour, one of the finest landlocked harbours in the world. Valletta occupies this headland, fortified across the neck.” The Admiral came away from the chart and sat down again.
“Who commands the Maltese, sir?”
“Some priests and notaries, one or two of their nobles; but none with any knowledge of war.”
“So the stalemate is likely to continue?”
“It would seem so. But the situation is damned awkward, made worse by the fact that the French have a squadron there—three sail of the line and three frigates with Rear-Admiral Decrès and Rear-Admiral Villeneuve. These are all safe under the guns of the fortress. We tie up as many ships to blockade the place. Apart from that, we want the harbour for ourselves.”
“But the French must be starving.”
“They are, more or less. But one or two ships have run the blockade with supplies and ammunition, the last being the frigate Boudeuse, in February.”
“Would you suppose, sir, that they will try again with a larger force?” Delancey’s tone was optimistic.
“That is their only hope but it is a question what force they can collect. In the meanwhile, we have a small garrison in Gozo, a squadron on blockade duty and our Maltese friends ashore. Our next convoy in October will consist of storeships laden with all that is needed to sustain the siege. Having escorted these ships on their passage you will relieve the Hornet, which is due for overhaul, and thus come under the orders of the senior naval officer, probably Commodore Sir Thomas Troubridge. The store-ships will return here escorted by the Hornet.”
“Aye, aye, sir. When shall we sail?”
“In about three weeks’ time. I forgot to tell you, by the way, that Mather is confirmed as your first lieutenant and that another officer called Stirling has arrived and will join you as second.”
“I’m glad to hear that, sir.”
Withdrawing at that point, Delancey met Mr Stirling in the outer office and was favourably impressed. The young officer was of average height but broad and stocky in build and immensely strong. He was fair-haired, bronzed, tough and compact; not a man to quarrel with. Judging from this first impression, Delancey guessed that this was a man on whom he could rely.
Over the following weeks Delancey came to recognise that his first impression of Stirling had been correct. He was an excellent officer, recently discharged from hospital after being wounded in action. He was a lowland Scot by origin but had been brought up in Hampshire and sent to sea as a boy. He was complementary to Mather, more forceful than the first lieutenant but less intelligent. Where Stirling was ruthless and cheerful, Mather was sensitive and subtle. In the hard work of refitting the Merlin they gained good results by an alternation of method.
The crew had done well in action against the Malouine, a smaller ship with fewer guns, but some would need much further training before Delancey would be satisfied. It was not enough to be average; he wanted his ship to be exceptional. This was now possible, with Mather a better first lieutenant than he himself had ever been and Stirling in some ways a better officer than Mather.
What had he that they lacked? He came in the end to realise that it was imagination and detachment. He could see the situation from the enemy’s point of view—it was this gift which ended the career of the Malouine and Mouche—and he could decide cold-bloodedly whether to fight or not. For one who had started life without much confidence, he had come to the surprising conclusion that he deserved to command. He was lucky, he decided, to have two outstanding officers and yet knew himself to be better than either. He felt confident as never before, and very lonely indeed.
There was a delay in collecting the necessary supplies and the convoy for Malta did not sail until November 24th. After calling at Port Mahon, Delancey was off Malta on December 19th, reporting on that day to the Commodore. The island looked bleak under low cloud with heavy seas breaking on its rocky shore. The Merlin, however, was looking her best and hove to with a flourish. In obedience to a signal Delancey had a boat lowered and was rowed over to the Culloden, flying the Commodore’s flag. She was cruising back and forth outside the entrance to Grand Harbour, keeping just out of range of the shore batteries and so placed as to prevent any French ship leaving harbour without being immediately engaged. Knowing about Troubridge from hearsay, Delancey looked at the Culloden as he boarded her, with something like awe. Looking back at his own ship, however, he could do so with pride. In less than a year he had brought her to something like perfection in appearance, smartness, sail-drill and gunnery. Her figure-head gleamed in gold leaf and his boat’s crew were uniformed in black jackets and white trousers. Tanner brought the boat to the Culloden’s entry with a flourish and oars were tossed smartly and together. None of this was wasted on the bluff and burly Sir Thomas, to whom Delancey reported on the quarterdeck.
Troubridge was something of a legend, known as Lord Nelson’s close friend and follower, a man with a great reputation as a seaman but not as a courtier when ashore. He was noted for a severity which was originally copied from Lord St. Vincent, the greatest disciplinarian of all. If the Merlin passed muster with Troubridge, Delancey had achieved something.
“Good-morning, captain. Your ship does you credit. You will, I fancy, have brought us the mail?”
“Yes, sir. I have also to hand you, in person, this letter from Rear-Admiral Fothergill. It is to place the sloop Merlin under your orders.”
“I can make good use of her,” replied the Commodore, taking the letter, “and your first task will be to take your convoy over to Gozo, where the bulk of the supplies will be unloaded. You will guard the anchorage there until the unloading is completed. Report to my pennant when this has been done.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
The purpose of this order was clear enough. Gozo was quite close to Malta and had a small port on the nearer side, with an outer anchorage sheltered to some extent by the larger island. Gozo was in British hands and was serving as a base for the close blockade of Valletta. The port of Gozo was a narrow creek with white houses on either side and a small breakwater. Beyond it, inland, could be glimpsed in the distance the dome of the cathedral at Vittoria, the island’s capital. Once the storeships were in this anchorage the Merlin dropped anchor to seawards of them. She was still there, as it happened, on the last day of the year, which was also the last day of the century.
Delancey marked the occasion by inviting all his officers and midshipmen to a late supper which would end after midnight. He had provided for the occasion a lamb, a small pig, some chicken and plenty of Maltese wine, with some captured brandy to finish with. The warrant and petty officers had planned a party under the boatswain’s presidency, the two watches were celebrating and only the look-out men were on deck providing the anchor watch. It was a dark but windless night, still enough to catch the sounds of celebration on board the storeships, at anchor together nearer the shore.
The after cabin in the Merlin was of no great size and the space was a little cramped for such an occasion. The meal had been cleared away and the officers were seated round a candlelit mahogany table, with fruit and nuts before them and with decanters still in circulation. The stern windows looked out on darkness save for a distant light or two on an anchored fishing boat. Conversation was lively and Stirling started an argument when he suggested, with a hint of Scots pedantry, that the new century would really begin twelve months hence, but the others agreed to dismiss this idea as heresy.
“What matters,” said Mather, “is the way we date our letters. All our lives we have been writing ‘17 something’ but from tomorrow it will be ‘1800.’ We must feel that we are entering a new period of history.”
“What will be new about it?” asked Stirling. “We shall still be fighting the same war.”
“And why not?” said Delancey. “War is our trade and I, for one, have no other. I give you a toast, gentlemen: to the fall of Valletta!”
The toast was drunk with enthusiasm but Northmore added a word of complaint.
“For my part, sir, I can’t see why the place has not fallen already. Here are all these Maltese eager for battle or anyway hating the French, and the French troops must be a starving handful.”
“Perhaps you were never there,” said Mather. “The ramparts must be seen to be believed. You would think them the work of giants, not of men. An assault, believe me, is out of the question.”
“That’s true enough,” agreed Langford. “The fortress is a masterpiece, no question of that. I saw it once in peacetime and have never forgotten it. And this General Vaubois won’t give in easily.”
“I suppose,” said Mather thoughtfully, “that he hopes for relief, a convoy from France with naval escort.”
“He is going to be damned hungry until it comes,” said Stirling.
“I think his worst trouble will be lack of fuel,” said Mather. “It’s a curious fact that men cannot eat grain—supposing he has grain—without cooking it. And the cook can do nothing without fuel, whether wood, charcoal, oil or coal. Malta has little fuel of its own at the best of times and Valletta, of course, has none.”
“Guernsey, where I grew up,” said Delancey, “is much the same, with driftwood at a premium. We burn furze there and sometimes seaweed. But you are right, Mr Mather. Even rats have to be cooked. Don’t you agree, Mr Northmore?”
“Well, sir, I have heard that rats are eaten sometimes in the gunroom but I have never seen it. I think it’s a yarn told to youngsters who have just come aboard.”
“Well, it’s more than a yarn so far as the French are concerned in Valletta,” said Stirling. “By the time they surrender they’ll have tried everything.”
There was, however, no shortage at Delancey’s table that night and the glasses were all filled afresh as the hour of midnight approached. Then the conversation died away and there was a minute of silence before the ship’s bell sounded and everyone cheered. Delancey then proposed the toast “To the new century!” As he did so there came the distant sound of church bells ashore in Gozo and the crackle and bang of fireworks from the fishing harbour. Delancey then excused himself and went off to visit the other messes, proposing the same toast at each of them.
He afterwards resumed his place and saw to it that glasses were refilled for the loyal toast, the first of the new year. After rapping on the table and calling for silence, Delancey said “Gentlemen, the King!” All remained seated, as was the naval custom, and all responded “The King!” or, in Mather’s case “The King, God bless him!” Young Topley, nerved by an unaccustomed allowance of wine, remarked that the loyal toast was never drunk in the mess of the Royal Fusiliers—they had been told by a previous King that they need not show their loyalty—it was not in question.
Conversation became general again and was at its height when a monster rocket exploded over Gozo, lighting the shoreline that could be glimpsed through the stern windows. For an instant the whole anchorage was as light as day. Then it was dark again and there suddenly came an outcry from on deck and the noise alongside of splintered woodwork.
“See what it is,” said Delancey to young Northmore, who was gone in an instant. “That rocket must have been costly! The Maltese and Gozotans have a great love of fireworks, I hear. They are usually reserved for the saints’ days but the new year is evidently observed as piously.”
“I can never understand,” said Stirling, “how they can afford what they spend in this way. These Maltese scratch a poor living out of a stony soil. One wouldn’t suppose that they had sixpence between them.”
“If they saved up for the celebration of the new century,” said Mather, “they would know at least that it wouldn’t happen too often.” There was some laughter over this, which ended rather abruptly with Northmore’s return. If he had been merry, he was quickly sobered.
“Beg pardon, sir. There’s a Frenchman been taken in a boat alongside. His craft was sunk with a round shot and he has been taken prisoner.”
“This is where our party must end,” said Delancey. “I’ll bid you good-night, gentlemen. It would seem that the year 1800 has brought me work to do.”
It was the gunner who had been standing anchor watch and it was he who brought the prisoner below under escort. He was something over twenty years old, an apparently nervous and shifty character, painfully thin and apparently starving, wrapped in a blanket but still blue with cold. With a thin and sallow face, hollow eyes and untidy hair, the prisoner did not make a favourable impression.
“A Frenchman, sir,” reported the gunner, “deserter from the Boudeuse frigate.”
“Thank you, Mr Helliwell. Have you searched him for arms?”
“Yes, sir. He had a thing like a midshipman’s dirk and I took it from him.”
“Good. You can leave the prisoner with me and the escort outside the door.”
The prisoner was told to sit down and the interrogation followed, in French, Delancey making notes as he went on.
“Who are you?”
“Giuseppe Pozzo, Enseigne de Vaisseau.”
“Of what ship?”
“The Boudeuse, frigate.”
“What is your function on board that ship?”
“None, sir. She has been broken up for firewood.”
“So you were serving ashore?”
“As Aide-de-Camp to Admiral Decrès.”
“And yet you are a deserter. Why?”
“News came recently to Valletta that this man Napoleon has come to power in France.”
“How did the news come?”
“In a fishing boat from Napoli.”
“I see. But what difference does this make to you?”
“I also come from Corsica and I know the Bonaparte family—a vile, avaricious and thieving tribe of banditti. I could suffer starvation for the people of France and even for the leaders of the revolution, but for one of the Bonaparte—never!”
“So you deserted in a small boat. Where were you going? To Gozo?”
“God, no! They would kill me there. I was hoping to find a ship from Naples or Sicily. This was the ship I tried first.”
“Does she look like an Italian merchantman?”
“It is dark, sir. I smelt cooking and could not tear myself away. I have had no proper meal for weeks—no, for months.”
“Not even on the Admiral’s staff?”
“For us it was worse. The Admiral was setting an example.”
“I see. What would you have done had you not been seen?”
“I should have tried these other ships, between you and the shore.”
“And when you found they too are British?”
“I should have given myself up to the British, never to the Maltese. You will at least treat me as a prisoner of war.”
“Don’t be too sure of that. I could send you back to Decrès to face a firing squad.”
The young man looked terrified, his voice now shrill with alarm and protest:
“You have sent no other deserters back.”
“No other officers have deserted. My Commodore, Sir Thomas Troubridge, is a disciplinarian above all else. He has no sympathy for deserters. He will send you back under a flag of truce.”
“How can I save myself? What do you want from me?”
“Information.”
“I’ll tell you all I know. We are starving, as you can see for yourself. We have been reduced to eating horses, dogs, cats—even rats.”
“Which meat do you prefer?”
“Asses’ meat is best when you can find it, provided that the beast is not more than three or four years old.”
“How interesting. But that is not the sort of information I want. My mind is dwelling, I find, on a different problem. General Vaubois has been summoned to surrender but he has refused with scorn. Why? Because he expects relief. And I feel, myself, that he is right: that an attempt to relieve the fortress must soon be made. He and Admiral Decrès must have been told that help is on the way. When is this convoy to sail and from what port?”
“How should I know, sir? I am an officer of the lowest rank, what you would call a midshipman, not one who would attend a Council of War.”
“Listen, Citizen Pozzo, Signor Pozzo or whatever you prefer to be called. You fail, I think, to realise your position. You may be dead within a few hours.”
“I don’t believe that your Commodore will send me back to Valletta. You are just trying to frighten me. Sir Troubridge would not stoop to murder.”
“You feel sure of that? Perhaps you are right. My better plan, in that case, is to hand you over to the Maltese.”
“You can’t do that!”
“Why not? Can’t I ask our allies to accept the custody of a prisoner of war?”
“It would be murder!”
“Look, young man. You are an enemy, you say, of Napoleon Bonaparte, for whom this fortress is being held. You must therefore want to see the fortress capitulate—with, of course, the honours of war. Now, think again. You will either talk or take the consequences. I have never supposed that Admiral Decrès is a very sympathetic type—but you, of course, will know him better than I do. As against that, the Maltese have no reason at all to like the French. General Bonaparte behaved so badly—don’t you think?—while here! In your place, I should decide to talk.”
“But what should I know?” The young man’s knuckles whitened as he twisted and untwisted his hands.
“As A.D.C. to Rear-Admiral Decrès, you must know when the relief attempt is to take place. That is a fact about which we need not argue. Allow me to refresh your memory. . . . Sentry! Pass the word for my steward.” Teesdale appeared as if by magic.
“Steward, is there something left over from our supper?”
“Yes, sir. There is soup, a chicken and half a leg of lamb. I could hot it up in a minute, sir.”
“Do that and put a decanter on the tray—with a little cheese, perhaps, and a few dates.”
Teesdale withdrew and Delancey, gazing out of the stern windows, began to think aloud:
“If I were Bonaparte, I should make my relief attempt in January while the nights are long, or perhaps early in February I should collect a squadron of some strength and a few good transports laden with ammunition and essential supplies. But I should realise that a simple plan must fail, the relief being expected. So all must depend on choosing the right commander; perhaps a junior Rear-Admiral, perhaps a Commodore. He must combine daring with caution. Or would two men be better, one to direct and the other to dash in? I have somehow to remove the blockading squadron before my supply ships can enter Grand Harbour. How? By defeating it? Or could I gain the same result by allowing it a victory?
“I have another squadron—I remind myself—under the guns of Valletta, including one very powerful ship. How is that squadron to be used and how can I bring it into action at the right time? That is, I tell myself, a difficult problem. I might begin—no, I will put it more strongly, I must certainly begin—with a clever deception plan. A young officer, to begin with, might fall into the enemy’s hands. How? He could be a deserter with a personal grudge against me. For this role I might well choose a Corsican, one who could tell some story about a family feud. There are such feuds in Corsica, as all the world must know. Many people have read that book by James Boswell . . .”
Delancey rambled on intentionally, remembering as he did so that other scene, years ago, where he had been the prisoner and a Spanish colonel had played with him the game of cat and mouse. He might not himself be the world’s best interrogator but he had at least been taught by a master. One began gently, mildly, applying the pressure later on. In this instance the pressure would be applied by Teesdale. It was, in fact, already being applied. A smell of roast mutton and chicken was in the air and the prisoner had begun to react. He might be bogus, he might be a liar—and Delancey thought that he probably was—but his being famished was a fact.
“If such a young officer were to tell a story that he knew to be false, he would suffer for it. I don’t pretend to know—I should prefer not to know—what the Maltese would do to him. But what if he changed his mind and told the truth? He might, in the first instance, be asked to supper. Oh, it could be nothing elaborate, of course, just a matter of pot luck: a little soup, a fowl perhaps, a glass of wine. . . .” The words reinforced the smell and the young man almost whimpered.
“Now, about this squadron under orders to sail from—Toulon, shall I say? (the prisoner nodded)—it might sail at the end of January or perhaps, again, at the beginning of February . . . early February? (the prisoner nodded) . . . just so. I seem, however, to have forgotten the name of the commander. Perhaps you could prompt my memory?”
There was at this moment a knock on the cabin door and Teesdale, told to enter, came in with a tray of covered dishes. The young man started to his feet despite himself but Delancey waved him back to his chair. The tray was left on the table and the steward withdrew.
“Wait, my friend. The food will keep hot. I may even have to send it away. . . . Now, where was I? Ah, I remember now. We were discussing, were we not, the name of the officer who has been chosen to relieve the fortress of Valletta. It would be a Rear-Admiral, we agreed . . . called . . . called?”
“Perrée.” The young man spat the name out with a grimace.
“But of course! Stupid of me to have forgotten. A very able officer and a very good choice. He was captured by us and since exchanged. Now, I can’t imagine that the Contre-Amiral will simply sail for Valletta. The plan needs to be more subtle than that, as I’m sure you will agree. So the relieving force will sail in two divisions, or even perhaps in three?”
“No, just the one.”
“With troops as well as supplies?”
“There are troops, yes.”
“And what is the plan?”
“I know nothing more.”
“Not even the name of the ships?”
“It was not yet decided.”
“So that is all you know?”
“All—I swear it.”
Pozzo had revealed something, whether true or false, and had earned his reward.
“Thank you, Citizen, for reminding me of a few facts which had escaped my memory. I think you need a change of clothes and then some supper. Steward!” Teesdale appeared in an instant. “Supply this young officer with something to wear from the slop chest. Put his uniform somewhere to dry. Then bring him back here as soon as possible.”
Nothing more was learnt from Pozzo that night and the Merlin was under sail at daybreak, presently joining the Commodore off Grand Harbour. After an exchange of signals the Merlin’s longboat pulled over to the Culloden with Delancey in the sternsheets and Pozzo beside him. The squadron was in precise formation under a leaden sky with the wind rising and the spray flying over the boat. Pozzo had a brief interview with Sir Thomas and was then taken away by a French-speaking lieutenant called Revell. Delancey found himself with the Commodore, the Culloden’s captain and members of the Commodore’s staff.
“Now tell me again,” said Sir Thomas in his usual gruff tone, “how exactly did this man fall into our hands?”
Delancey explained, realising as he did so that Pozzo’s story was not very credible. The Commodore exposed its weakness in an instant.
“This boat of his, sunk alongside, must have been quite small?”
“A sort of skiff, sir.”
“Could he have rowed in it from Valletta?”
“No, sir. Perhaps from the nearest port of Malta, and that only on a still night.”
“But he claims to have come from Valletta?”
“Yes, sir.”
“So we know that Pozzo is a liar?”
“Undoubtedly, Sir Thomas.”
“But you still think the intelligence he brings us may be important?”
“Even liars sometimes tell the truth.’
“As, for example, about the French plans?”
“His story about the expected relief is at least plausible.”
“Deception plans are usually at least plausible. Leave friend Pozzo with me and return to your ship. Reconnoitre the entrance to Grand Harbour and then come to dine with me this afternoon. I’ll tell you then what we have decided.”
Back on his own quarterdeck, Delancey reflected on the mistake he had made. He had been so eager to learn about the next relief attempt that he had neglected the more immediate question of how Pozzo had reached Gozo. Troubridge, with his greater experience, had fastened at once on the weak part of the story and Delancey could see that he was right. He felt, nevertheless, that some attempt to relieve Valletta would have to be made.
It was for Troubridge to decide whether Pozzo was an actual deserter or a patriot who had volunteered for a dangerous mission. Was his information planted, and if so why? Granted that Pozzo’s skiff could not have come far, it followed that he had come from Valletta in a larger boat with the skiff on board. That larger craft might have been a Maltese fishing vessel or could as easily have been the launch from a French man-of-war. Which was it? Not for the first time in his service career, Delancey was glad to think that it was not for him to decide.
An hour later the Merlin was close in to the harbour entrance and Delancey was studying Valletta at fairly close range. To starboard, he could see, was Fort St Elmo, the seaward end of the peninsula on which the city was built; a towering fortification under the French flag. To port, as he knew, were the other cities: Kalkara, Cospicua, Senglea, defended by Fort St Angelo. Everywhere the cliffs were crowned by honey-coloured battlements. The harbour was completely landlocked and heavily defended by hundreds of cannon. He had heard that the place was impregnable and he could well believe it. But how could a relief convoy enter the port? There was only the one entrance to Grand Harbour and a British squadron to watch it.
The problem would have been simpler if the French had control of a second port or more of the island. But this was the gauntlet they had to run. Their only chance was to send enough men-of-war to engage Troubridge in battle, followed by merchantmen who could slip into harbour while the battle continued. Or could Decrès make a sortie to cover the convoy’s approach? The difficulty about that would be one of timing. Delancey went in as far as he dared, being finally checked by a single shot from Fort St Elmo. It was wide but provided proof that the sloop was within range. Delancey at once gave the order to tack, needing no second hint, and no other shot was fired. The French clearly had no ammunition to waste.
Aboard the Culloden again, Delancey was hospitably entertained at the Commodore’s table. There was no sign of Pozzo, nor was his name mentioned until after dinner when Sir Thomas took Delancey aside and motioned Lieutenant Revell to join them.
“Tell Captain Delancey what we know now about your prisoner.”
“Well, sir, I told him at first that we should send him back to Valletta. He then tried to kill himself but was prevented. I took this as proof that he is really a deserter. I then established by questioning that his story about his feud with the family of Bonaparte is rubbish. He left Corsica as a young child and knows very little about the island except from hearsay. He was no longer Aide-de-Camp to Admiral Decrès at the time of his desertion. He had been caught drawing rations for a coxswain who had actually died. This led to dismissal from the Admiral’s staff and to a month as duty officer in the forward position. He was worried, I think, lest some other indiscretion should come to light, earning him further penalties. So he bribed a fisherman to take him and that skiff (which he stole) to the island of Comino. He was not seriously trying to reach Italy. His intention all along was to give himself up as a prisoner of war. I do not see him as a heroic character.”
“And what about the expected relief attempt?”
“I think that story may be true. It fits in with other intelligence reports.”
Delancey was relieved to hear this, glad to think he had not been entirely wrong and that Pozzo was the deserter he claimed to be. He would, nevertheless, be more cautious another time.
“I should be interested to know,” he said, “why a man who had lied about everything else should tell the truth about the expected relief.”
“Well, sir, it is a matter of opinion. You should know, however, that he now denies the statement he made to you. He says that you starved him into saying something about the French plans. He realised that the interrogation would go on until he provided you with some information. He says now that the information he gave you was false.”
“I think it was true and that he is lying now. He was under pressure, as he says, and those few facts were forced out of him. Yes, I agree with you: his subsequent denial adds weight to the information he gave at first.”
“If we accept that reasoning,” said the Commodore, “we have the point of departure, the commander’s name and the approximate date. I don’t accept Pozzo’s statement that the convoy will sail together. I should assume that the convoy will be in two divisions, possibly in three.”
“Have you decided, Sir Thomas,” asked Delancey, “how to deal with the situation?” He knew as he said it that he had spoken out of turn.
“It is not for me to decide,” replied Troubridge, shortly. “The decision rests with Lord Keith, who is quite as experienced as you or I. You did well, however, to bring us that prisoner and better still to question him before he had recovered from the shock of capture. Back to Gozo now and remain there until your supply ships are ready to sail.”
Once more in his own cabin, with the Merlin at her old anchorage, Delancey thought that the new century had so far been kind to him. An action was to be expected and he might play some part in it. He had already perhaps done something to influence the British deployment. As against that, he had made two mistakes, the first in his interrogation of Pozzo, the second in this last conversation with Troubridge. The moment he had asked the question he realised that he should not have done so. Would it count against him? On the whole he thought not. But he must never again speak out of turn. This was something to have learnt.
He opened the general chart of the Mediterranean and plotted the obvious course from Toulon to Malta. Perrée’s alternatives were two. He could follow the coast of Italy, pass the Straits of Messina and approach Malta from the north, or else he could go south of Sardinia and through the Sicilian Channel, making his approach from the west. He pondered these alternatives and decided, finally, that the simpler plan was the best. Whatever route Perrée might choose he would finally have to enter Grand Harbour and there, just out of gunshot, Lord Keith would be waiting for him. To waylay the French convoy outside Toulon was a theoretical possibility but there was no time for that. No, the entrance of Grand Harbour, the position where the Merlin had drawn the enemy’s fire, was a focal point towards which all routes must lead.
In a few days’ time the Malta convoy would have sailed. At much the same hour Lord Keith would be approaching from the opposite direction. Lord Nelson might also be on the way and heaven knows what other ships had been ordered to the same rendezvous. For the convoy to reach Valletta, the first necessity had been to keep the plan secret. With secrecy lost, Delancey could not see that the relief attempt could have the slightest chance of success. But the French must have foreseen the dangers. Their plans must surely involve the convergence of several squadrons; one to give battle, one to lead the pursuit away from Malta and a third to make a dash for Grand Harbour.
Some such plan might succeed against an opponent endowed with plenty of enthusiasm. It might just possibly succeed against Lord Nelson. But he was not the Commander-in-Chief. The man to be outwitted was that stolid Scotsman, Lord Keith, whose place—Delancey guessed—would be in the harbour mouth; a position from which he would not be lured by any alarm or excursion. Studying the chart and surveying the battlefield, Delancey came to what he thought might be a valuable conclusion. In warfare, he pondered, one of the worst mistakes is to be too clever. The next few weeks, he guessed, might prove the truth of this.