The rest of the country was in uniform as well, William Wordsworth drilling at Grasmere in Westmorland, Walter Scott slashing at turnip heads stuck on poles along the Musselburgh sands. All over the country, portly little bankers in snappy outfits were marching up and down and reading Henry V’s Harfleur speech or Queen Elizabeth’s Tilbury oration to bemused yokels who only wanted to get at the French. Nothing excited any of them more than the prospect of getting at the French.
But it was the Channel coast where the preparations were most urgent. The area nearest the sea had become an armed camp, row upon row of tents, guns and horse lines stretching from one field to the next. In every town and village the church towers had been converted into armouries, filled with pikes and muskets for drill after the service on Sundays. Every loft in every thatched cottage contained a tankful of water to extinguish the fires that the French were sure to start (a plumbing arrangement that continues to this day). Every farm cart within twenty miles of the coast had been listed for requisition as soon as the French landed, so that women and children could be evacuated inland. Benches for them to sit on had already been stored in farm buildings near the assembly points. All livestock was to go as well, herded away from the coast so that the Grand Army would have nothing to feed on. The evacuation was to be organised by the village constables and beadles, who were to see to it that everybody reported to the assembly points and nobody was left behind. As soon as the civilian population had moved off, the local clergy were to go round every parish making sure that all property had been destroyed and nothing remained for the French to take. If it was total war the French wanted when they came to England, total war they would have. The English would never surrender their liberty without a fight.
At the Admiralty, a new First Lord had been appointed. His name was Sir Charles Middleton and he was seventy-eight years old. It was a good choice, despite his age. Admiral Middleton had been in the navy all his adult life. He was a kinsman of Lord Melville and had worked closely with him at the Admiralty. Melville had trusted his judgement and relied heavily on him for advice.
Yet his appointment had been bitterly opposed by other members of the government. Former Prime Minister Addington had threatened to resign his Cabinet post if one of his own men didn’t get the job instead. The king too was opposed to Middleton. But William Pitt had insisted on his choice. With the navy in a state of crisis, he needed a firm hand at the top. Middleton was the right man for the task.
He was not an MP, but needed to be answerable to Parliament. Pitt therefore arranged for him to be given a peerage so that he could take questions in the House of Lords. It was as Lord Barham that Middleton moved into the Admiralty in April and took up the reins where Melville had left off. Swallowing his own disappointment at not getting the job, a rival candidate gave the new lord his grudging approval:
I was not aware that at his advanced age his health and faculties were equal to such a post. If they are he is indisputably the fittest man that could be chosen to occupy it at the time. His abilities were always considered great, his experience is consummate, and he has few equals in application and methods of business.
Barham’s abilities were tested at once. Even as he was taking office, news reached London of Villeneuve’s breakout from Toulon. Lord Mark Kerr aboard the Fisgard had passed the word to the Melampus off Finisterre and had sent a message to the Admiralty via the Greyhound, a Guernsey lugger bound for Plymouth. But even more disturbing news was to follow. The British had a spy in Paris who went by the name L’Ami. On 29 April, L’Ami informed London of Napoleon’s strategy. L’Ami didn’t know the precise details, but in general terms Napoleon was planning a feint, sending Villeneuve to the West Indies to lure the Royal Navy away from his real target and then striking when the navy’s back was turned.
This was disturbing news indeed. Even if L’Ami didn’t know the real target, it didn’t take a genius to work out what was in Napoleon’s mind. With so much movement towards the Channel, an invasion was clearly in the offing.
L’Ami’s report reached Downing Street on the evening of 29 April. At 2.30 the next morning, William Pitt passed it to Barham with a covering note:
On returning from the House, I have just found these papers; they are of the most pressing importance. I will not go to bed for a few hours, but will be ready to see you as soon as you please, as I think we must not lose a moment in taking measures to set afloat every ship that by any means of extraordinary exertion we can find means to man.
Barham agreed. If the spy was right, there was no time to waste. His first priority was to reinforce the Western Squadron, where the action was likely to take place. Barham issued orders for the three-decker Prince George to join the squadron at once and authorised the hire of half a dozen civilian ships to act as dispatch boats. He was desperately short of larger ships, but two seventy-four-gunners were nearing completion at Chatham. Barham sent Admiral Rowley down there to hurry the builders along and get the ships launched without delay. He also issued detailed instructions to the squadrons at sea, warning them to expect an invasion at any moment. The instructions varied for each squadron, but in essence the ships were to withdraw towards the English Channel the moment the enemy appeared, concentrating there at the point of greatest danger.
Barham knew that the approaches to the English Channel were the key to any invasion. Napoleon’s strategy of luring the Royal Navy away from the Channel had never had any hope of succeeding. The navy was far too astute for that. Villeneuve had trailed his coat to the West Indies, but not a single ship from the home fleet had left station to follow him, or ever would. It was Nelson’s job to follow Villeneuve with the Mediterranean fleet, while the rest of the navy stayed put, guarding the home shores. Napoleon’s strategy had been doomed from the start. He must either fight the battle in the English Channel or abandon his invasion attempt altogether.
Across the parade ground from the Admiralty, William Pitt was working long hours in Downing Street to keep abreast of the situation. His letter to Barham at 2.30 a.m. was not unusual. It was perfectly routine for him to stay up almost until dawn, working by candlelight after a strenuous day at the House of Commons. The country needed it of him and Pitt was equal to the challenge.
But the strain was beginning to tell. He was not a well man. To the normal press of government business had been added an invasion threat more serious than any since William the Conqueror. On top of that, Pitt had to deal with a fractious House of Commons that seized every opportunity to make trouble for him. The censure of Lord Melville had been only one bruising encounter among many. The threat of ministerial resignations over his successor had been another. They were saying in the clubs that Pitt was not as good a war leader as his father had been. The opposition was determined to bring him down if it could – and it sometimes seemed to Pitt as if half the government wanted to bring him down as well. He would not have been human if his health hadn’t suffered as a result.
His niece Hester Stanhope was very worried about him, as she later recalled:
What a life was his! Roused from sleep (for he was a good sleeper) with a dispatch from Lord Melville; then down to Windsor; then, if he had half an hour to spare, trying to swallow something; Mr Adams with a paper, Mr Long with another; then Mr Rose: then, with a little bottle of cordial confection in his pocket, off to the House until three or four in the morning; then home to a hot supper for two or three hours more, to talk over what was to be done next day – and wine, and wine. Scarcely up next morning, when ‘tat-tat-tat’, twenty or thirty people one after another, and the horses walking before the door from two till sunset, waiting for him. It was enough to kill a man – it was murder.
Lady Hester was more accurate than she knew. It was not quite murder, but Pitt was certainly dying from the strain. His health was deteriorating so rapidly that he only had a few more months to live.
At Windsor Castle, King George III was considering the case of Nicholas Lincoln, a seaman of the Royal Navy. He
had been with the Nemesis, but had jumped ship and deserted. His recapture had been followed by a court martial at which Lincoln had been sentenced to death. The question now was whether the sentence should be carried out, or whether the king should exercise clemency.
The minutes of the case lay in front of him. They came from the new First Lord of the Admiralty:
Your Majesty will perceive that the man is clearly a citizen of America, was pressed into your Majesty’s service, and has not received your Majesty’s bounty. Lord Barham therefore takes the liberty of submitting to your Majesty, whether, under all circumstances, it may not be advisable to grant him your Majesty’s pardon.
A difficult one. Desertion was a capital offence and discipline had to be maintained in the Royal Navy, particularly at a time like this. But Lincoln was an American citizen and the Americans did not take kindly to the Royal Navy pressing their seamen, let alone hanging them from the yardarm. There might be political repercussions if the execution went ahead. And there might be more desertions if it did not.
Was he really American? US Federal law demanded a residence in America of at least five years for its citizens, and many sailors could not claim that. British law did not allow citizens to shed their obligations when they changed nationality. The US consul in London was notoriously corrupt, handing out bogus American citizenship to any British sailor who slipped him half a crown. There were all sorts of considerations to be taken into account before a sailor’s claim to be American could be accepted. But Lord Barham seemed to think he was, and the king usually took the advice of his ministers in cases of this sort. His pen hovered uncertainly between life or death, while far away Nicholas Lincoln waited in his cell, wondering miserably what the mad old man’s verdict was going to be.
CHAPTER 19
VILLENEUVE RETURNS
TO EUROPE
At sea, Villeneuve was making good progress back to Europe. His fleet had sailed northwards at first, then turned starboard towards the Azores. By the end of June they were more than halfway home, with no sign of Lord Nelson on the horizon. They had the Atlantic all to themselves.
It was a difficult time for Villeneuve. He was not supposed to be in command on this leg of the operation – the plan had been for Admiral Ganteaume to assume overall command when their fleets combined at Martinique. It was Ganteaume who was supposed to be making all the difficult decisions, not Villeneuve. But Ganteaume was nowhere to be seen, probably still bottled up in Brest, and Missiessy had long since returned to Rochefort. Villeneuve was in sole charge, with the task of carrying out orders from Napoleon that seemed to change by the day.
He had received three different sets of orders from Napoleon while in the West Indies. They were contradictory and had arrived in the wrong sequence, which only added to the confusion. Villeneuve’s aim now was to head for the northern coast of Spain in the belief that that was what the Emperor would want in the changed circumstances. It was difficult to tell, with Napoleon firing off instructions in all directions and expecting everything to proceed like clockwork.
Despite his successes so far, Villeneuve was not happy with the ships under his command. Jane Kerby had watched them in Antigua trying and failing to form a line of battle. Villeneuve had watched them too, doing his best to conceal his despair. His captains were courageous enough, but lacked the skill at manoeuvring that only came from years of experience at sea. His men were sick, going down in their hundreds with scurvy and dysentery. The Spanish were so feeble they should never have left Cadiz. Villeneuve had grave doubts about leading any of them into action against the Royal Navy.
His subordinates thought him timid, haunted by the Nile and le souvenir d’Aboukir. In fact, Villeneuve was simply a realist who knew what he was up against. Avoiding battle with Nelson was the sensible thing to do unless he could be sure of success. It was much more important to get his ships back to Ferrol in one piece, and thence to the English Channel. They had several days’ start on Nelson – enough to get to Boulogne in reasonable time and see the Grand Army across to Dover before Nelson caught up. The operation was still feasible, albeit behind schedule. With a fair wind, it could still work out as planned.
Behind them, Nelson’s men scoured the horizon every day, but never saw any sign of Villeneuve. His fleet remained as elusive as ever.
They crossed his wake on 17 June and two days later met an American ship, the Sally, which had sighted the French to the north. Two days after that, they spotted three wooden planks in the dark that might have come from the French. By Nelson’s calculation, the two fleets were now about 240 miles apart. It was a big gap, but he could still close it before the French reached Cadiz or Toulon. Nelson used every inch of canvas to try.
Unfortunately for him, the French weren’t going to Cadiz or Toulon. Ferrol was in northern Spain. The two fleets were on parallel tracks, heading for different destinations. With the French going north of the Azores and the British south, there was never any chance of Nelson catching Villeneuve before he got back to Europe. Nelson had miscalculated.
But he had insured against this by sending a frigate ahead to warn the British admiral blockading Ferrol that Villeneuve might be on his way. Another British ship, the Curieux, had actually spotted the French on a course that seemed to indicate the Bay of Biscay as its destination. Captain George Bettesworth had debated whether to sail back to warn Nelson, or sail forward to warn the Admiralty. He had decided on the Admiralty, if England was about to be invaded, and was heading that way at full speed. It was a race now to see who would arrive first.
In Italy, King Napoleon had been busy since his coronation, dealing with the affairs of his new domain. To the dismay of his staff, he had appointed Josephine’s twenty-five-year-old son Eugene as viceroy and had spent some time instructing him in the arts of kingship by proxy. He had also donated the little principalities of Lucca and Piombino to his sisters and annexed the whole of Liguria for France.
His activities had appalled the rest of Europe and Austria in particular, which now found itself sharing a border with the French Empire. Yet Napoleon took little notice. He was enjoying his new status. His wife had tried to restrain him a while back, sitting on his knee and begging him not to make himself king of France, but Napoleon hadn’t listened. And where Josephine couldn’t persuade him, no one else could either.
Soon after the coronation, he embarked on a grand tour of northern Italy, taking Josephine with him. They travelled in state from Brescia and Verona to Mantua, Bologna, Parma and other places, making a ceremonial entry into each in turn. Napoleon had 60,000 troops in Italy, scattered in different locations. He managed to review most of them at one place or another, meeting the local dignitaries at the same time and acknowledging the plaudits of the crowds. As an Italian of sorts, the new king had captured the popular imagination. Not everyone approved of him, but enough did to make his progress a triumph.
At Genoa, he stayed for a week, sleeping in Charles V’s bed at the Palazzo Doria. His bedroom had a magnificent view of the sea, with a flotilla of boats in the bay laden with orange and lemon blossoms in his honour. The sun was scorching hot and he needed a mosquito net at night, but Napoleon was enjoying himself. His visit was a success and he had met an Italian girl whom he intended to see more of, without Josephine’s knowledge.
During their tour, however, he never lost contact with Paris. Admiral Decrès was in charge of naval operations in his absence. Napoleon wrote to him almost every day with new plans and ideas for the invasion of Britain. Everything in his correspondence hinged on which admiral was where, with how many ships, and whether they would be somewhere else on a certain date. The constant bombardment of new orders was more than Decrès could bear. He preferred to work with Napoleon face to face, so that he could talk him out of his sillier ideas. Trying to put his schemes into practice from a distance was impossible. Decrès lost patience at length and wrote to the Emperor, imploring him to come home. Napoleon replied that there were few things more likely to m
islead the British as to his real intentions than his continuing presence in Italy. ‘Nothing is better calculated than my journey to hide my projects and fool the enemy.’ Anyway, he would be home soon, but without the British knowing anything about it.
Villeneuve’s fleet reached the Azores on 2 July, where they were rejoined by some frigates that had been following them from the West Indies. The fleet continued on its course until 4 July, when disaster struck. The wind began to drop and a squall approached from the north-east, impeding their progress. The fleet lost momentum and for several vital days lay almost becalmed, scarcely moving at all.
This was what Napoleon had never understood. Comfortably ensconced on land, playing chess games across a map of the Atlantic, he had never fully grasped that ships lay at the mercy of the weather, unable to move across the board as easily as infantry or cavalry. Villeneuve was powerless in the face of the elements. He knew full well that time was precious and every minute counted, but there was nothing he could do about it except pace the deck and pray for wind.
Nelson was in the same predicament to the south. He too lay becalmed for several days, fretting that Villeneuve was getting all the wind while he was not. He too realised that every minute was vital. Nelson put a brave face on it in public, but in the privacy of his cabin he was acutely concerned that the French were slipping away from him.
North of Villeneuve’s fleet, it was a different story. The Curieux, heading for England under Captain Bettesworth, had a fair wind all the way, sailing into Plymouth on the afternoon of 7 July. Bettesworth leapt ashore at once and travelled through the night to warn the Admiralty in London that Villeneuve’s twenty warships were almost certainly bound for the Bay of Biscay.
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