The navy’s second line of defence was much closer to home. It comprised a squadron of frigates and ships of the line under Admiral Lord Keith anchored in the Downs, off Deal. The squadron could scud across the North Sea or down into the Channel at a moment’s notice. It was a rapid-reaction force, poised to go into action as soon as the invasion sails were sighted on the horizon.
The third line of defence was even closer still. It consisted of the Sea Fencibles, several hundred river craft and fishing boats armed with cannon and manned by volunteers. The Sea Fencibles were responsible for patrolling the estuaries and inlets of southern Britain, all the way from Great Yarmouth to Swansea in South Wales. There were even a few of them as far north as the Firth of Forth. They were unlikely to see any action against the French, in the Admiralty’s view. They had been formed to give the local fishermen something to do more than anything, a way of soaking up manpower that was keen to be involved but would otherwise be sitting around idle.
The blockade was the navy’s chief weapon against the French. Apart from a break during the Peace of Amiens, it had been in place for many years. The blockade kept the French fleet permanently in port, rendering it useless for all practical purposes. It also stifled the coastal economy and inhibited communications with France’s overseas possessions. More than that, it presented an all too visible curb on Napoleon’s global ambitions, a reminder that his writ did not run on the high seas and never would while the Royal Navy had anything to do with it. The blockade was a formidable instrument of war.
In practice, however, it was hardly ever a total blockade. A tight grip was maintained around the invasion ports wherever possible, but in the Mediterranean the British were usually careful to leave at least one channel open, in the hope of tempting French warships out to sea. Once out of harbour, the French could have a discussion with the British as to precisely which of the two navies ruled the waves. It was an invitation the French wisely declined. They preferred to remain safely in port, consoling themselves with the thought that it was the Royal Navy whose ships were permanently at sea, slowly disintegrating in the bad weather while the French kept their powder dry for another day.
There was a good deal of truth in this. The wear and tear on the Royal Navy was considerable, and likely to remain so for the foreseeable future. Many of its ships were inferior to the French navy’s – older, creakier and less well designed. Some of the Royal Navy’s best ships were actually French, captured in action and recommissioned under the White Ensign. But whatever their provenance, they were all suffering the effects of being forever at sea. Every major storm produced its share of mishaps – sails cut to ribbons, ships dismasted, hulls collapsing under the strain. The Royal Navy was taking a constant battering on blockade duties, its vessels gradually being torn to pieces while the French remained snugly in harbour. Often it was only the skill of the navy’s carpenters and sailmakers that kept them in business at all.
Vice-Admiral Cuthbert Collingwood regularly went a week at a time without taking his clothes off on blockade duty and was often on deck all night. He was forthright in his condemnation of the politicians who had allowed the situation to develop. In his view, the navy’s masters at home did not understand how much of a beating their ships were taking. Nor did they realise:
how little practicable it is to block up a port in winter. To sail from one blockaded port, and enter another, where the whole fleet is, without being seen, does not come within the comprehension of the city politicians. Their idea is that we are like sentinels standing at a door, who must see, and may intercept, all who attempt to go into it. But so long as the ships are at sea they are content, little considering that every one of the blasts which we endure lessens the security of the country.
Yet the navy was equal to the challenge. The deficiencies of its ships were more than compensated for by the quality of its men. The officers of the Royal Navy went to sea at the age of twelve, and many of the men not much older. Long years afloat had given them skills and seamanship second to none. As the Grand Army predominated on land, so did the Royal Navy at sea – there wasn’t another navy in the world that could compare. The men of the blockade were well-drilled professionals, supremely confident of their own ability. They could clear a ship for action in six minutes flat, which was no mean achievement. Their gunnery was excellent, too, even in rough seas when the pitch and roll made it difficult to aim properly. They had had plenty of time to practise, perfecting their technique in every kind of weather. All they wanted now was a chance to show what they could do. And for that, they needed the French navy to show itself out of port.
In Brest, Boulogne and elsewhere, the French navy stubbornly refused to do anything of the sort. The French had persuaded themselves that they were playing a much more cunning game by sitting tight in harbour. They might have better ships, but their navy was no match for the British, as even the most patriotic Frenchmen privately acknowledged. It was a formidable force on paper, with plenty of fighting vessels under command. In practice, however, its ships had serious problems competing with the Royal Navy. For one thing, the British were an island people, with a maritime heritage stretching back to their Viking ancestors. There was no such tradition in France.
For another, the French navy had suffered grievously during the Revolution. Its officers had been drawn from the upper class and duly paid the price. Large numbers had been guillotined or forced to resign, leaving vacancies that had been filled by a new breed of officer, noted more for revolutionary zeal than seamanship. Promotion had been swift, with so many vacancies to fill. Officers were now in command who had not put in long years at sea and lacked the expertise of their British counterparts. Quarterdecks were crowded with Jacobins instead of disciplinarians. The names of French ships, proudly handed down over the centuries, had been unceremoniously dumped in favour of revolutionary slogans. The red cap of liberty was worn on deck, and everybody regarded themselves as the equal of everybody else. But equality was no compensation for the professionalism that had been lost with the execution of so many good officers. An awful lot of French seamanship had dropped into the guillotine basket during the years of terror.
Worst of all, the matelots of the lower decks could not compare with their British counterparts. They came from similar backgrounds, but where the British spent months and sometimes years at sea, training hard and honing their skills, the French often didn’t go to sea at all. How could they, with the Royal Navy blockading the ports? And if they didn’t go to sea, how could they learn about wind and tide, or the best way to ride out a storm? How could they practise gun drills if they never got out of harbour?
The British knew how to sail their ships and fire their guns in all kinds of weather. The French did not. They had been hopelessly outclassed at the Battle of the Nile, when Lord Nelson attacked them from the landward side, in the dark, and still managed to blow them out of the water. They feared they would be outclassed again, if they ever came out of port. Much better to sit tight and let the Royal Navy take the strain, falling to pieces on the high seas while the French stayed safely in harbour and watched them suffer.
Even so, morale was not high in the French navy. Nobody enjoyed being stuck in port all the time. Enthusiasm for the Revolution had also waned, although support for Napoleon’s new empire was not much greater. One admiral had openly objected to the election of Napoleon as Emperor, arguing that this was hardly what the Revolution had been about. He had promptly been dismissed, as a warning to the others. They had duly taken heed and kept their mouths shut, even among themselves. Very few admirals were prepared to stand up to Napoleon and speak the truth to him. Very few had his respect.
One who did was René Latouche-Tréville, probably the best admiral in the French navy. He had once got the better of Lord Nelson at Boulogne and never let anyone forget it. Latouche-Tréville commanded now at Toulon in the Mediterranean, where Nelson was doing his best to lure him out of harbour for a fight. The Toulon fleet was crucial to Napoleo
n’s invasion plan. Under Latouche-Tréville’s command, it was to sail up to Boulogne when the time came and keep the Royal Navy occupied while the invasion barges crossed the Channel. If anyone could handle the operation successfully, it was Latouche-Tréville.
Unfortunately for the French, he died on 18 August. He suffered a heart attack after climbing the hill to the signal station to get a view of the English out to sea. It was a major blow for Napoleon – a man of Latouche-Tréville’s calibre was not easy to replace. At the very least, it would take several weeks to find another admiral and send him down to Toulon. Several weeks would bring them to the autumn equinox, with all its bad weather at sea. Latouche-Tréville’s heart attack could hardly have come at a more inconvenient time for the invasion plan.
CHAPTER 7
NAPOLEON VISITS CHARLEMAGNE’S TOMB
Not yet aware of Latouche-Tréville’s death, Napoleon remained a few more days with the army at Boulogne, continuing his inspection of the invasion force. Then he left earlier than planned and set off for a tour of the German principalities in the Rhineland.
He was going to collect his wife Josephine on the way. The new Empress was taking the waters at Aix-la-Chapelle. At Napoleon’s insistence, her retinue for her sojourn at Aix numbered almost 100, including chefs, maids, footmen, ladies-in-waiting, a chamberlain, her personal physician, the master of the horse and many others. At his insistence also, towns along the route had been decorated with bunting for her arrival, bands had played to welcome her and guns had fired a salute at every stop. Josephine had come a long way from her modest origins in Martinique. She was now the wife of the Emperor of France, and had to be seen as such.
Napoleon wrote to her from Boulogne on 20 August:
In ten days I will be at Aix-la-Chapelle. From there, I will go with you to Cologne, Coblenz, Mainz, Trier and Luxembourg . . . I am anxious to see you, to tell you everything you inspire in me, and to cover you with kisses. A bachelor’s life is a miserable one, and nothing is worth so much as a good wife, beautiful and loving.
Four days later, he wrote again:
I may arrive at night, so let lovers beware . . . ! My health is good and I am working hard, but I am too well behaved. That has a bad effect on me, so I am anxious to see you.
He left Boulogne on 27 August, travelling in a yellow berline drawn by four horses. Other carriages followed with his staff. Napoleon’s coach was fitted out as an office, with a filing cabinet, oil lamp and portable lavatory. He worked non-stop as he travelled, issuing a stream of directives through the window to the aides-de-camp and dispatch riders keeping pace alongside. He liked to maintain a cracking pace along the road, complaining constantly that the carriages weren’t moving fast enough.
Via St-Omer and Arras, he reached Aix on 2 September. Josephine had cried for joy at the news that he was coming to see her. She was a mature lady in 1804, forty-one years old and nervous of her position, well aware that she had still not provided Napoleon with a son. She was hoping a miracle might yet happen. If it didn’t, she was worried he would not want her by his side when he was crowned Emperor later in the year.
Josephine had good reason to be nervous, because it wasn’t for her that Napoleon had come to Aix. Despite his effusions to Josephine, it was one of her ladies-in-waiting that he wanted to see. Elisabeth de Vaudey was a beautiful young aristocrat with extravagant tastes, and Napoleon had had his eye on her for some time. At Aix, he pursued her relentlessly, regardless of his wife’s feelings. Josephine reacted as she usually did, complaining of severe headaches and claiming she couldn’t rise from her sick bed.
But Madame de Vaudey did not occupy Napoleon for long. Really he was in Aix because it was the city of Charlemagne, the great king of the Franks who had united all of Western Europe under his rule. The medieval town hall still stood on the ruins of his palace. Thirty-five kings had banqueted there after their coronations in the cathedral. If kings could be crowned in Charlemagne’s footsteps, why not the new Emperor of France as well? Why not Aix for his coronation, instead of Paris?
Soon after his arrival, he and Josephine attended a Te Deum in the cathedral, where Charlemagne was buried. Various relics were produced for their inspection, including Charlemagne’s skull and a bone from his arm. Josephine had earlier refused to touch the bone, insisting that she was supported by an arm quite as strong as Charlemagne’s. Napoleon was more interested in other relics – the regalia used at Charlemagne’s coronation. A crown, orb, sceptre, sword and spurs still existed, although they had been scattered during the Revolution. Most of the relics were kept now at Nuremberg, beyond Napoleon’s reach. It would be good to get them back again and be crowned in Charlemagne’s capital wearing Charlemagne’s spurs and holding Charlemagne’s sword. If nothing else, it would annoy the people of Paris, with whom Napoleon had a very uneasy relationship. He was not popular in the French capital. They saw him there as a Corsican upstart and laughed at his pretensions. It would be a tremendous snub to them if he chose to be crowned in Aix cathedral instead of Notre Dame – ‘if only to make the Parisians see that one can govern without them’.
Best of all, though, would be to conquer England before his coronation. If he could capture London in the next few months, then he could come to his coronation as master of the English and everyone in France would love him for it, even the people of Paris. Wherever he was crowned, it would be a master stroke to arrive at the ceremony as the man who had defeated France’s bitterest enemy and brought victory to the French-speaking world. Perhaps the logistics were against an invasion of England just yet, with the military preparations incomplete and the year so far advanced, but Napoleon could always dream. His dreams tended towards the grandiose. It was in a bullish mood that he left Aix after a few days and set off to Cologne for a quick tour of the lower Rhine and a series of official visits to some very apprehensive German princelings.
News of his departure took several days to reach England. It was greeted with relief, mingled with more than a little misgiving. Was he really heading off down the Rhine on a cruise? Or was his absence from Boulogne merely an elaborate ruse, designed to lull the British into a false sense of security? Would he return suddenly and launch his troops across the Channel without warning? Anything seemed possible, where Napoleon was concerned.
For William Pitt, now spending most of his time in London, the dilemma was acute. As Prime Minister at this time of crisis, it was his duty to remain in the capital, at the heart of government. If the French invaded, he was to take to the field with the king and remain with him at his headquarters. But the action was far more likely to take place in Kent, on the shingle beach just across from Walmer Castle. As the man who had raised the Cinque Port Volunteers, Pitt was longing to be at the head of his troops when the French landed. And even if he was not directly involved in the fighting, it would be useful to be on the spot, to see at first hand how things were going. He could keep in touch with London through the telegraph station at Deal – just so long as the French didn’t capture it in the first wave of fighting.
Pitt worried constantly about where he ought to be. It was his practice at Walmer never to travel too far from the castle, so that he could be called back in a hurry if necessary. He varied this habit only when the weather was bad, or the tides weren’t right for an invasion. Then he felt free to leave Walmer for longer, or even to go back to London for a few days. It was impossible to be everywhere at once.
Walmer had been dubbed ‘the most dangerous place in the whole kingdom’ during the invasion scare. The castle itself was a modest creation, little more than a fort, a relic of the Tudor era. It had become domesticated since then, and by 1804 was really only a gentleman’s residence with a few gunports attached. It boasted several cannon and a row of firing loops to cover the moat, but was hardly a great fortress. The permanent garrison numbered fewer than twenty.
William Pitt had lived there intermittently since 1792, largely because it was cheaper than anywhere else. Constantly in deb
t, he depended on the income from his Wardenship of the Cinque Ports to make ends meet. The castle came with the job, which helped considerably. He inhabited bachelor quarters over the gatehouse and used the drawing and dining rooms off the north bastion for official entertaining (his dining table and chairs are still used today).
The threat of invasion had hung over Pitt’s head for most of his time at Walmer. As early as 1799, the Astronomer Royal had sent him a reflecting telescope to watch for an invading fleet. The telescope had arrived with a list of assembly instructions in six easy stages. George Canning, himself a future Prime Minister, had been staying at the castle at the time, but neither he nor Pitt had been able to put the thing together. They had both abandoned it after a while, leaving the telescope in bits in the corner.
But the invasion threat remained. The beach was just a stone’s throw from Walmer Castle. There would be hand-to-hand combat if the French came ashore, grenades lobbed on to the terrace and muskets fired from the dining-room windows. If Pitt was present at the time, there was every possibility that he might be killed in the crossfire. It was probably this that made General Moore emphatic that the Prime Minister should play no real part in the fighting when it came.
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