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

by M Howard Morgan

  He rode through the town and into the courtyard of a hôtel, the Mortier d’Or, and paid for a room for two nights, overlooking the Eglise St-Jacques, from which he could observe activity in the square below. He washed and shaved, changed his stained breeches and pulled a clean shirt from his valise. After a light supper of fried fish, followed by cheese, he returned to his room with a bottle of poor red wine, and prepared to wait. If his message had arrived in London, a small party of British sailors should appear… he consulted his watch… in just over an hour. Picking up his valise, he touched the brass pins on each side, hearing a reassuring confirming click, as the base lifted on hidden springs. Lifting the base, he pulled a flat canvas packet from the hidden compartment, and read again the despatch of Jean Dalbarade, France’s Minister of the Navy. This was exactly the information he had agreed to obtain. It had not been easy. He had recruited a Scots lady, Grace Elliott, to assist. She had proved significantly successful, well known to the French and English aristocracy. Drinking a glass of wine, he re-packed his bag, blew out the lamp, then sat at the table by the window and waited.

  * * * * *

  Mary Vizzard laughed at the antics of the pup, a collie, as it chased the ball of wool around the floor. Mary had decided to call it Charlotte, after Jack’s only sister, as a courtesy really, because she was not overly fond of her sister-in-law. She considered her too strong-willed, and a rather opinionated person. Jack called her stubborn, but remained fond of his sister, visiting rarely since their return from New South Wales. The loose-limbed pup, mostly black, with a white face, white feet and a white-tipped tail, had all the energy and force of personality of Charlotte Vizzard, and the same inquisitive temperament.

  Abandoning the now futile attempt at knitting the long, thick socks Jack had such a fondness for she picked the puppy from the floor and placed it on her lap. ‘I wonder if your new master will be displeased.’ She spoke aloud to the animal, which stared back at her with deep brown, uncomprehending eyes full of devotion. She had taken the animal in from her neighbour, Joan Fitzpatrick, on an impulse, taking pity on the creature, the smallest of a recent litter. The addition of an animal to the household would provide company for her, she reasoned, during Jack’s absences from home. And he liked dogs.

  Her thoughts immediately turned to him. They so often did. He was away again, this time some secret assignment on the coast of France. She worried for him, always. Jack inevitably dismissed her concerns with his usual good-natured scorn. ‘I shall be perfectly safe beloved.’ He had said dismissively. ‘Whatever chaos the forlorn country is in, at least we are not at war – for the present.’

  Then, this morning all had changed. Outside the Phoenix Tavern the town crier had brought the morning shoppers to a standstill. People stood like statues as he loudly proclaimed the announcement the revolutionaries of France had indeed declared war on England. Wherever Jack was, she prayed he would learn of this, and take great care.

  Within minutes it seemed, a patrol of soldiers arrived under the command of a sergeant.

  ‘Come my lads,’ he shouted, ‘come take the King’s shilling, for you have heard the news this morn, we are at war with France again. Come join the South Hampshire’s own regiment, the 67th Foot. Do your patriotic duty. Come lads, come one and all, and take a pot of ale with me!’ There would always be men willing to join the colours, rather than the harsh life of the Navy, he had learned.

  He stood at the steps of the Phoenix, jangling a heavy purse, expectant of a small crowd of young men, eager to take a tankard of ale and listen to his stories of the last war; pleased to take his money. The sergeant had need of more men. The regiment was under-strength, and the ones he had were country bumpkins in uniform, he thought, smiling broadly at the group of men, hoping to find more profitable employment at the dockyard nearby. One approached him, a youth no more than sixteen years, dressed in dirty, worn trousers, and an old coat which was evidently not his own, for it was too large for his small frame. The remaining men pulled hats over their eyes, dug hands deeper into trouser pockets, and moved quickly away.

  Mary shuddered, the cold air only contributing to her chilled senses, and walked into a butcher’s shop, one she had come to use more when Jack was at home, for he favoured the sausages and pork pies the man made.

  ‘Ah a good morning to you, Mistress Vizzard. How may I treat you this cold, but interesting day? You have heard the news I take it? Is your gallant husband at home this week?’ He stood at a bench, on which lay a stained and well-used board, a large boning knife in his hand.

  ‘Good morning to you, Mister Richards,’ she answered, smiling weakly. ‘My husband is expected home from London tomorrow, and will be expecting some of those fine sausages of yours he so admires.’

  It was none of his business where Jack might be, and knowing him as she did, he would not welcome idle gossip of his comings and goings. ‘Mary, it is for the regiment, you and me alone, to know where I am or what I am engaged upon.’ He had made abundantly clear his instructions to her, many times before.

  ‘My pleasure indeed, my dear lady, a real pleasure as always.’ Richards looked at Mary in a friendly manner, again enjoying her regular visit to his small shop, for she was a beauty to behold, she brightened his day. He turned to a stone shelf behind him, on which lay a variety of meats; loins of pork, trays of offal, pies of varying size and fillings and strings of sausages of varying contents. He was proud of his work, hard though it was, and glad he had the custom of the Navy and the Corps of Marines, for most of the townsfolk could ill afford to pay his prices.

  With a swift stroke of his knife he severed a string of a dozen of his most popular variety of beef sausages, deftly wrapping them in a packet of paper, passing it across the bench to Mary.

  ‘Your bill will be tuppence please, my dear, unless you have a fancy for anything else? One of my fine pies might tempt you perhaps? Some rich venison, or a spiced pork?’

  He spoke hopefully, knowing Mary occasionally purchased several other items during her twice-weekly visits.

  ‘Thank you, but no, Mister Richards, it is all I require this morning. I wish you a good day.’ She smiled and turned, the butcher pausing to admire her retreating form, as she exited his shop, thinking it could be another week before her smiling face graced his premises once more.

  The people of Portsmouth had largely dispersed as she left the shop, with one or two small groups of old men, former soldiers and sailors probably, who stood talking in low voices. She walked briskly past, ignoring the leering glances, intent on returning to the comfort of her home. She thought absently, of the first home she and Jack had made in Sydney Town; the poor rough-log hut leaking with every fall of rain. She had come to love their home, glad though she had been to leave it when, at last, Jack was free to return to England.

  It was with some surprise she turned the corner into Great Southsea Street and found herself viewing the form of her recent hostess, Helena Squires, clearly in an agitated condition. She hesitated, but the lady had noted Mary’s approach with such obvious relief she could not avoid the contact – she wondered for a moment why she should want to.

  ‘My dear Mary, how pleased I am to see you,’ she announced, with something of a forced smile. ‘May I impose on you and invite myself for some refreshment please. I fear I have had some quite disconcerting news, and would share it with you, if it is not an inconvenience to you?’

  Pulling the key to the door from her purse, she glanced sideways at Helena.

  ‘Naturally. It will be a pleasure I am sure.’

  The door open, she stepped inside the gloomy hallway, indicating her companion to follow with an outstretched hand. She pulled off her cloak, hanging it on a hook on the wall, and made her way to the small room at the front of the house, furnished modestly with two armchairs upholstered in green leather, now showing the first signs of aging. Henry had donated them of course, together with other items of furniture, as a contribution to their new home.

  Ma
ry gestured again, ‘Please, do sit and make yourself comfortable. I am sorry for the cold, but have yet to make up the fire.’

  Helena’s eyes appeared troubled and agitated, but confused too.

  ‘Would you care for some hot tea, Helena? It will take only a moment.’

  She thought to provide herself with an excuse to leave the room and ponder the reason for this unexpected visit. With a nod of assent, she left and busied in the kitchen, boiling water and spooning leaves into a pot. Helena was plainly troubled, she thought. But why come to me? Does it concern Jack? Is it to do with his present absence? She picked a jar from the pantry, in which she had stored some shortbread, thinking it humble fare for her guest, but anxious to offer more than simple Indian tea.

  The porcelain was old; it had belonged to Jack’s mother of course. The set was incomplete and quite fragile and delicately decorated with images of primroses. It was another of Henry’s thoughtful kindnesses. As the fusion of leaves and boiled water reached a conclusion, she smiled to herself with a warm thought for her father-in-law and resolved to return to the Cotswolds to visit both Henry and her own family.

  Helena was gazing through the window to the street, watching flakes of snow float earthwards, forming slush in the mud, as Mary carried a tray to the table.

  ‘I wonder if it is snowing in France this morning.’ Helena spoke quietly.

  ‘Why do you think of France?’ Mary asked instantly alert.

  ‘Your husband is there, at least so I believe.’ Helena spoke softly, her eyes still watching the snow.

  Mary sensed trouble in those few words. She sat quickly in one of the armchairs, the colour draining from her face.

  ‘You must know he is, Helena. Please, what is wrong?’ She felt her hands trembling, but refused to look at them, fixing her eyes on Helena Squires, willing her to speak.

  ‘Mary my dear, I believe he is in some danger.’

  Chapter 6

  The day had died quickly, the cold sun slipping silently into the western sea, as Jack Vizzard and Lieutenant Lapenotière took station either side of the helmsman; the sailor searching the grey rolling sea ahead of his swift little craft, the marine grasping a ratline to starboard, feeling the wind combing his hair forward, seeking out the nape of his neck. The wind was increasing and a squall was rolling down the Channel.

  Jack climbed up to the gunwale, the better to view the coast when it appeared. He steadied his swaying body and wiped spray from his eyes, slowly adjusting to the gathering gloom. His head turned slowly through ninety degrees as he searched the sea and stopped. He understood with immediacy they were in harm’s way.

  ‘Astern, John. Look.’

  Lapenotière spun round, eyes narrowed as he too, realised his beloved vessel was about to be churned to matchwood.

  ‘Hard a’ starboard, man!’ he roared at the helmsman. The sailor, a sharp alert man, didn’t hesitate, repeating the order as he swung the craft around. ‘All hands stand to,’ his shout audible throughout his command, immediately answered by the sound of men running to their allotted stations.

  ‘Damn the lubber of a lookout. I wager you, Jack, she is the Duc d’Ayen; a privateer out of Dunkirk. I have seen her before. Fast and well-armed, she has twice our guns and thrice our manpower. And she is too damned close.’ He snatched up a glass, trained it on the vessel astern. ‘Dammit, I’m right, too!

  Dickie Bird appeared in front of his captain. ‘Your orders, sir?’ A ball passed between them, the hot wind brushing their faces, an instant before it decapitated the helmsman, and sent a crimson shower across the deck.

  ‘Another man on the helm, now please.’ The order superfluous as a mate grasped the wheel as the dead man’s blood still pumped from his body. Still training his glass on the approaching ship, he commanded; ‘Please have your lobsters ready, Vizzard. I will have work for them imminently.’ Calm and controlled he braced against a sudden clap as a second gun opened up. ‘Note the log, Dickie; then have your division ready for boarding’.

  ‘You are attacking?’ Unable to keep the surprise from his voice, Jack reflected on his orders. ‘Can we not out-run her, John? I must be ashore without the French navy at my back.’

  ‘I may be Nimble, Jack, but have not the speed and I have no choice in the matter. She has the gage and the legs to close us. No, sorry my friend, we must fight her or be taken. And I for one have no desire to be taken a prisoner at the start of this war.’

  He ran forward shouting orders, catching the boatswain and speaking quickly but not within Jack’s hearing because the gunwale on which Jack had stood moments before exploded into a dozen splinters, piercing the deck in front of them.

  ‘Sergeant Packer, he shouted, ‘I want the men up and picking them off, their officers first. Smartly now.’

  Packer rolled his eyes upward and ran off muttering, ‘Bloody hell. That’s all we bleedin’ want.’ He directed a party forrard to the bows and the main body of his force astern, collecting a boarding pike and a cutlass he joined Vizzard astern.

  Lapenotière had sent a man below for swords and pistols, calling more orders in a calm firm voice, watching the enemy’s actions with a steadiness Jack found encouraging. He emulated the sea-officer, placing his hands behind his back.

  ‘Have you a plan, John? He is drawing on us, I detect.’

  ‘Indeed he is. I need him to do so for my scheme to work.’ He lowered the glass and glanced at Jack, ‘I must get alongside him and damned quickly, if we are to have a chance.’ He watched the approaching ship through narrowed eyes. ‘I will get alongside, spar to spar, fire our pea-shooters, and then sheer off. I shall repeat the manoeuvre and your men must fire rapidly, Jack. I will give them no more than a minute or two at each passing. Then, if all is well, I shall board her!’

  They responded to an order her master had given a minute earlier, Nimble heeling over with such speed Jack lost his footing, sliding into the base of the mizzen as another shot hit the larboard quarter. Scrambling to his feet, he saw the gap between the two was closing too rapidly, now less than a cable length.

  ‘She’s all-amiss, look. They cannot move. Bring me alongside, Nicholls, quickly now’, Lapenotière called to the helm. ‘Dickie, ready with those grapples… ten more seconds.’

  With unexpected silence, Nimble was alongside the frigate, as the wooden walls met. Then came the splintering of timber as the spars and rigging caught, knitted together, bringing the vessel close aboard with the guns of the French ship still elevated as a ragged fire rippled along her side. The Nimble’s small guns at full elevation fired, with one or two well-aimed balls striking the larger armament of the French ship above them.

  ‘Now sergeant, fire!’ shouted Jack, a concentrated volley sweeping death across the gap. ‘Make ready and fire.’ Marines worked hard and fast, teeth biting on cartridges, ramrods flashing, smoke snaking across the deck. A second, less concentrated volley spat into the packed ranks of French sailors, spinning bodies aside in a wind of destruction.

  ‘Bear away, Nicholls. Look sharp!’ Nimble pulled away, her yards ripping the enemy’s halyards from the port side clews and leaches as a ragged broadside finally came from the larger vessel, a ball punching a hole high in the mizzen as Lapenotière issued another order, the yards swinging, bringing his craft with skill across the stern of his opponent. Then his four-pounders cracked out in sequence as he slid speedily onto the opposite tack, confusing the Frenchmen already rushing to the larboard side.

  ‘Mister Nicholls, the sea anchor… now.’ Then, ‘Hard a’ lee… now!’ He directed the helmsman, who grunted as he worked the ship to his master’s will spinning her almost as a top with a laughing child behind it. The man spat, wishing he had tobacco.

  As she turned, Jack ordered his men astern, watching as Nimble came ever closer the sailors steady by their guns, waiting on the command. When it came, they remained disciplined, the gun-captains pulling the lanyards, orders unnecessary, the smoke filling the deck, the trucks squealing, boys runni
ng with more bags to fuel the guns, men shouting their fear.

  ‘Now, Dickie, let’s get at `em.’ Lieutenant Lapenotière leapt across the gap between the two, hauling himself up the side as a dozen men followed him.

  Jack Vizzard called to his sergeant, and followed, hand over hand along a line, swinging his legs onto the gunwale of the larger ship, pulling a pistol from his belt as he did so, seeking a target. He discharged it into the face of a French sailor, awed when the man’s face disappeared under a sea of crimson, clubbing a second sailor in the face before throwing the weapon aside, kicking a third in the crutch and pulling his sword slicing a pike-man across the neck as he charged forward.

  Vaguely aware of Lapenotière to his left and Sergeant Packer to his right and a sea of blue in front he was stopped in his headlong rush by a French officer. A tall, slender man, with an aristocratic, arrogant expression, the man lunged, but was too slow. Steel rang against steel as the men sought an advantage on the now crowded deck. A sudden thrust, he sidestepped and Joe Packer’s pistol exploded by his ear as he put a ball into the Frenchman’s chest, throwing the officer backwards.

  ‘No time for fancy swordplay, sir,’ he shouted, mouth wide, teeth stained from years of tobacco. Packer swung his pike in a wide arc, forcing the French sailors back.

  ‘Thank you, Joe.’

  Then he was slashing and hacking again as more French took form in the sea of bodies, screaming as wild men, desperate to repel the invasion of their ship. Steel clashed against steel, smoke filled the arena as, like gladiators, each man sought a weakness in his opponent, slashing, stabbing, clubbing, kicking and gouging to bring victory. To survive.