THE GLORIOUS FIRST: The first fleet action of the French Revolutionary War (The Jack Vizzard Chronicles Book 2)

by M Howard Morgan

  The tall officer returned Jack’s salute and extended his hand in welcome, and Jack had time to observe a dark complexioned man of about his own age, ruddy of face with a dimpled chin, wearing a faded uniform coat, with a single, slightly tarnished, epaulette.

  ‘Dickie Bird will show you where to go, just as soon as your stores are aboard. I am most anxious to get underway, as naturally you will understand. I have the luxury of a small cabin, which please do me the honour by sharing. I will join you presently.’

  He strode forrard to supervise the loading of Jack’s stores, shouting at the chattering seamen labouring with barrels and cases and sacks.

  Jack and Joseph Packer stood at the stern, close to the wheel, looking about in helpless attitude. The seamen, obviously working to prior orders and from skill born of experience, hauled on halliards, raising the jib; another section heaved on the sheets to raise the fore-stays’l. A third gang worked the capstan, raising the bow-anchor.

  Lieutenant Lapenotière walked back to the stern, watching his crew at work. ‘Bring her out, Mister Holt,’ he called to the master’s mate standing at the wheel.

  The little vessel picked up a wind and heeled to larboard. Lapenotière moved to the windward side, peering alternately along her side and at the bowsprit. ‘Another half-point to larboard then we should be flying,’ he shouted to the helmsman. The vessel responded, her sails filling, the mainsail whipped and cracked as it too, was hauled up, driving her bows forward, a surge of foaming grey water sliding swiftly along her flanks, as the rising mizzen cracked and filled, pushing the swift vessel even faster. Vizzard grinned at Packer, infecting his sergeant with good humour.

  Dickie Bird returned from an errand below, and called out, ‘Come with me, if you please, sir. Sergeant Packer, I will show you where to lay up.’ He darted back below and Jack followed, Sergeant Packer close behind.

  Vizzard remembered, fortunately in time, to duck his tall frame to avoid a beam. Sergeant Packer, not so familiar with small ships, forgot, and struck his head in the gloom below. ‘Bugger this.’ He cursed again, rubbing his forehead.

  Jack laughed. ‘Never mind your bloody head, Joe. I hope you have not dented Mister Lapenotière’s little ship. He seems to be in love with her!’

  ‘I can see `ow he feels about his vessel; she do sail smartly. Mind you, sir seems we must rely on yet another ruddy Frenchie, sir. This one seems a mite more English though.’

  The midshipman’s eyes flared in the low light.

  ‘Mister Lapenotière is unquestionably an English gentleman, Sergeant Packer I assure you, and a finer inshore sailor you will not find in the service.’ His glaring eyes levelled at Joe Packer, challenging.

  ‘I intended no slur on your cap’n, Mister Bird, grunted Packer, staring directly at the midshipman. ‘My apology for any offence.’

  Bird relaxed. ‘His great-grandfather fought with Marlborough, sergeant, and his own father was a Post Captain. They are Huguenots, Mister Vizzard, his family settled in Devon for a hundred years or more.’

  ‘Regretfully I do not know of the family, Mister Bird, but I look forward to his company on our little expedition.’

  ‘I have had a hammock slung for you next to the gunner, Sergeant Packer, just along here.’ He stopped at a small curtained area, timbers creaking as the vessel rose under their feet. ‘Mister Vizzard is to share the captain’s berth, though in truth it is no stateroom.’

  Stooping low, he entered Lapenotière’s private quarters, dropping his pack and musket behind the door of the small rear cabin. Unbuckling his sword belt, he sat on a chair, and helped himself to a glass of water from a jug in a rack. He had time to study the cabin, rudimentary as it was. A cot, probably too short for Lapenotière, was slung on the starboard side. A small round table and four spoon-back chairs were the substance of the furniture. A rack with half a dozen or so books hung on the larboard side; an eclectic mix of The Nautical Almanac, a bible and what might be novels or books of poetry; Jack could not tell as the spines were damaged by salt or mould. Three small windows in the stern allowed light into the cabin. A narrow bench, covered in worn and sun-faded canvas, was set into the timbers below, with a pair of small cupboards for storage of personal items. Jack could see some shoes and a pair of boots, one of which prevented the cabin door from closing.

  Overhead the sound of running feet interrupted his inspection. The door to the cabin opened with a sudden flourish, and John Lapenotière stood crouching in the doorway.

  ‘Ah, now there you are. I trust you are comfortable. We are well away now, and I can spare a few minutes. Joshua Holt is a reliable man – keeps a good watch. Belay that water, Mister Vizzard. Have a real drink!’ He opened a cupboard, and pulled a bottle of brandy from its depths. Plucking a pair of pewter mugs from the rack, he poured generous measures into both.

  ‘Good French liquor man. You should enjoy it! Health to you, and damn the French I say.’

  Jack raised the mug taking a large mouthful.

  ‘Health and fortune to you, Mister Lapenotière, although I confess I am curious as to the reason for your enmity to the country which is now our enemy.’

  ‘Please, dear fellow, do call me John, I insist. Dickie Bird has mentioned my family I see. No matter. I hold no allegiance to France, be in no doubt of my loyalty, dear fellow. My great-grandfather had to flee for his life, all for the sake of his faith. Wars, Jack, have their roots in religion, but perhaps the current revolution is an exception. Now sir, I have a briefing from old Powlett, and your Major Squires assailed my ears yesterday on the subject of this expedition of yours. Pull the chart down would you, there’s a good chap,’ he said, indicating a roll on the shelf behind Jack.

  He did so and Lapenotière stretched the chart over the table, completely obscuring it from view.

  ‘Here, I have marked our landing point. I know the coast quite well – it differs little from Dover, but without the cliffs. There is a small beach between Dieppe and Varengville – there, close to Pourville. Be best to drop you there – you have a guide I believe?’ At Jack’s nod, he continued. ‘Then it should be a steady march into the town itself.’

  He drained his glass and poured another. To his mute enquiry, Jack declined.

  ‘The entry to the town is not my chief concern, John. It is finding this man and getting him back which troubles me. The town is likely to be patrolled, so I am told. I have only a small and lightly armed force.’

  ‘Yes, it will be but they have no real troops in Dieppe I am aware of. My bosun was there last week – how d’ye think we get such fine brandy? He reports no troops in the town and nor even any armed men of any real quality. I can have him accompany you if you so desire it, however, he has little of the French language of any value to you.’

  ‘I hope his information is reliable then’, Jack replied. ‘You are clear on the signals to be employed for our collection, I trust?’

  Lieutenant Lapenotière looked sharply at him. ‘You need have no concern about it. I am familiar with this coast and will not fail you. Count on it.’

  Vizzard however, was not prepared to accept this officer’s assurances and insisted on repeating them, and the arrangements to be complied with should he not return to the landing place at the appointed time.

  Finally, satisfied Lieutenant Lapenotière understood his own orders, as well as Jack’s interpretation of them he rose slowly and announced his intention of checking on his men. Leaving the small cabin, Jack was followed by Lapenotière who rapidly took in the condition of his command, with a swift glance aloft, and a more searching study of the seamen on deck. He stood by the helmsman, hands clasped behind his back, the fresh breeze lifting his dark hair forward over his head. His mouth formed a satisfied grin, showing clear, white teeth.

  Jack moved toward the stem of the vessel, seeing Joe Packer arranging supplies and equipment with two privates. He staggered briefly, as a large wave raised the vessel, rolling her to larboard. He grabbed at the shrouds to steady himself.r />
  ‘Sergeant Packer. Are we ready for this task, or shall I ask Mister Lapenotière to return us to Portsmouth?’

  Packer smiled, knowing his officer’s sarcastic ways, and understanding his anxiety over this business. He feigned a scowl, deceiving neither of them.

  ‘Now then sir, none of your usual banter if you please, it might upset the lads. They don’t know you ain’t serious.’ He turned to one of the privates, speaking in the peculiar, gruff London voice the men knew so well, ‘Make sure those water bottles are filled, Mortimer, and with water not pusser’s rum. I’ll check `em later.’

  Turning back to Jack, he spoke more quietly. ‘You think this excursion will be all right, sir? Only some of the boys are a bit skittish about it all. Landing on a French beach at night, marching into a strange town; it ain’t what they were expecting, you see.’ Packer rubbed his chin, realising he had not shaved properly this morning.

  He gazed back at the experienced, level-headed sergeant who had come to be more of a friend than he cared to admit, the bonds of friendship having been formed in the despair of Sydney Town, when nearly all but Packer and Vizzard had forsaken discipline and the spirit of the Corps. He smiled at the memory of those days as he answered.

  ‘I have this suspicion, Joe,’ Jack said, ‘the coasts of France may become more familiar to us. This is a most important task, perhaps the first of several, and I have been left in no doubt as to its value to our masters.’ He moved Packer away from the working party, seeking more privacy.

  ‘Our man is obviously a spy, and he must be returned to England, whatever the cost, Joe. I confess I am anxious about this matter, rather the more so because our guide is one who I instinctively dislike. There is something odd in his manner. Watch monsieur Bontecou carefully, Joe; most carefully.’

  ‘I wouldn’t trust the bastard, sir. I’ll keep a close eye on the bugger.’

  The subject of their conversation appeared by the mast, in conversation with the bosun, who seemed not to be listening to the Frenchman with any great attention. Vizzard took the opportunity to climb the foremast, as the pair walked aft, evidently seeking Lieutenant Lapenotière. From his vantage point, straddling the yard beneath the lookout, he watched as the Frenchman engaged Lapenotière in conversation. The sea was darker now, and he realised the sun, mostly only glimpsed during the day had begun to vanish completely behind a curtain of dark clouds moving slowly up-channel, so it was all but obscured. The salt-filled air was becoming chill, and soon the sea to the west was blackening, topped out with bubbling crests of dirty white.

  Jack pondered on the mission that had brought him aboard this small cutter and inevitably he found himself thinking of the country in front of him, which within a few hours would be beneath his feet. An alien country, where his small group of marines were to be cast ashore, and destined for what? He desperately wished to avoid any contact with local people. Would it be possible? Would he find the man the Admiralty officials were so anxious to talk with? He speculated, with futility he understood, just what information he possessed that could be of such value. ‘At any cost’ he had been ordered. He understood exactly what was meant by the order. Was he prepared to sacrifice himself for Lord knows what man, for information he would never be a party to? Was death to be his duty? His fate? Could he sacrifice his life for some secret information he might never know? Would never know. He doubted it and felt an inner cold seep into his bones.

  A call from the deck brought him back from him back from his thoughts to the present. He had been called to the deck by Lapenotière, and standing and stretching, he quickly descended the shrouds, making his way back to where Lieutenant Lapenotière paced across the deck, from windward to leeward, and back again, a puzzled frown on his face.

  ‘Join me for a bite to eat, Jack, if you please. I need to discuss a matter with you.’ Lapenotière moved towards the door leading to the small cabin in the stern, not waiting for a response.

  The table had been laid with a piece of surplus sail-cloth in lieu of a table cloth, and on it Lapenotière’s servant had placed two large wooden fiddles and some fresh baked bread, the aroma of which immediately made Jack aware of an appetite which had been dormant all day. Now he felt famished.

  John Lapenotière poured some small beer from a stone bottle pulled from his seemingly bottomless chest, into a pair of pewter mugs. Jack waited for him to speak, sensing the man now had some trouble to share, and was struggling to form the words.

  The servant clattered noisily through the door, kicking it ajar with no regard for courtesy to the ship’s commander, and placing a laden tray heavily on the table. A dish of large, charred beefsteaks, covered in browned onions, brought saliva to Jack’s mouth. He saw a bowl of steaming potatoes, still in their skins, dripping with fresh butter. He could be patient no longer. As the servant left the cabin, as noisily as he had entered, he glanced at Lapenotière.

  ‘Come, sit and let us eat man. God, I am ravenous. This sea air gives one an appetite, is it not the truth?’ He took a pull at the tankard of beer, and helped himself to the topmost piece of meat, and adding a generous spoonful of onions and a large over-boiled potato.

  John Lapenotière spoke softer than was his habit. ‘This Frenchman, Jack; he makes me damned uncomfortable.’ Lapenotière stared at the food in front of him. ‘He spoke with me – you may have observed – and now asks me to change plans and land you and your party further along the coast to the west. I confess I was rather put out. He believes it would be safer for all, but I am troubled, and don’t mind telling you. He could give me no explanation for his request, which he has not discussed with you – he confirmed it so. I sent him below with a sharp word or two, I can tell you.’

  With considerable enthusiasm John Lapenotière pulled a piece of beef onto his platter taking, and dropping, one of the greasy potatoes, which rolled onto the table. ‘Hell and damnation,’ he said, stabbing the errant vegetable with his fork, placing it back on his platter. ‘The bastard knows more than he has told, I have little doubt.’ He sawed at the meat, thrusting a large piece into his mouth, a stray length of onion left hanging from the corner of his mouth.

  Jack paused, considering this new development, which discomforted him also. Why should the French servant make such a request, with no consultation or word before approaching Lapenotière?

  An impulse came to Jack’s mouth.

  ‘Go along with his suggestion, John. I too am curious, indeed concerned, but some instinct tells me to go along with this. How far along the coast does he suggest we now land?’

  ‘Oh, only a mile or so from the original point, which is what is so odd. Why should he feel our chosen place is ‘unsafe’ – his word, Jack, his word.’ Lapenotière hacked at the potato, and hesitated. ‘He clearly knows the area well. Muttered something about the beach shelving steeply and access to the coast road at the point presenting a hazard. It will mean a longer walk for your chaps, I reckon.’

  The point had not been lost on Jack. He had no desire to add to the physical burden of the approach to Dieppe, but his insatiable curiosity had taken over. Greater caution would be necessary, and he would need to be even more vigilant.

  The Frenchman was playing out some plan, and he had to discover what it was. At any cost.

  Chapter 5

  He had left the portmanteau in the villa in Paris, and regretted it. There had been a dozen or so quite lovely drawings contained within it, which probably he would never see again.

  The journey from Paris to Normandy had wearied him. The documents from the Legislative Assembly had helped him this far, but they were no more than clever forgeries, and the confusion throughout the country had assisted him enormously. Twice now he had met with a challenge en route from the capital. He sensed the tiredness in the horse; she had carried him from Evreaux; twelve days he had ridden, resting when he could, always with an ear, and an eye, for trouble. And trouble there had been in plenty. Every town had witnessed one or more horrors. He had watched, frigh
tened, saddened and at times disgusted with what he had witnessed. The Terror had spread from Paris to town after town and to even small villages, where communities now sought out any who were less than fervent supporters. Each town found a self-appointed leader of growing brutality.

  Charles Hamilton Smith looked older than his years. His face, pale from years of study of engineering and more recently, artillery, was of a plain man. Dark hazel eyes set wide apart had proved to be an asset. He was a talented artist, with a sharp observant eye for detail. At 19 he appeared an upright, confident young officer, and his uniform, of an ensign of the Savoy Hussars was effective as a disguise; none outside Paris would know of it. The blue coat with silver epaulette, and a plain shako displaying a single red plume above a gilt eagle, was sufficiently nondescript to arouse no interest. Once recognised as from the new 84th département with the French language at his command, albeit with a hint of Flemish accent, he had for the greater part of his journey been left unmolested.

  He had left Paris almost too late, with one of Robespierre’s lackeys close to confirming his identity, after ensuring his friend, Monsieur Bontecou, had safely reached England with his message. He was confident he would find an escort waiting for him in Dieppe. The Admiralty would be anxious to see him back. The Admiralty had promised him an escort from Paris but had let him down. The man had been intercepted, he learned from his associate, and had disappeared.

  He patted the mare’s neck, encouraging her to continue the last mile or so of his journey as the old town of Dieppe unfolded before him in the fading light. He paused on a rise in the road to admire the old city, dominated by the chateau. He had visited Dieppe two years before and had spent a month or more sketching some of the churches and old buildings scattered about the harbour and the fishing fleet, as now, safely moored within the protection of the port.

  He squeezed his booted legs into the horse and walked her on down the hill into the town. He planned to rest for an hour or two in a hôtel, before the rendezvous by the church of St Jacques. Would the Navy be there, as he had requested? It was a question he could not answer, but he prayed they would be. If not, he intended to bribe a fisherman to take him across the channel; a more risky venture he knew, but he also knew smugglers, greedy to earn hard currency, were sometimes willing to risk the fast cutters of the British customs service.