A searing, excruciating pain in his side removed, for an instant of time, the red mist in his vision, and Jack fell to one knee. A burly French seaman was over him, the cutlass high above. Instinct made him thrust his right arm upwards, skewering the man in his groin. The scream bursting in his ears as he withdrew rolled away and struggled to his feet, the pain all but bearable.
He heard shouting, saw the French captain by the mainmast, attempting to rally his men. Jack slashed at another man, opening a face, to find himself in front of the French captain, the point of his sword swiftly at the man’s throat.
‘Surrender, sir. I urge you to yield, before more blood is shed on your fine ship. La capitulation, monsieur. Je vous conseille de céder, avant que plus de sang est répandu sur votre navire parfait.’ He hissed the French, caring not for his accuracy.
‘Oui. Yes,’ the crestfallen, sullen captain answered with shame in his eyes.
Dickie Bird cut the French tricolour from the jack-staff with his dirk, bending on a flag of St George, the only one he found in the flag locker before boarding. It will suffice, he thought. ‘My God, sir,’ he shouted to Laponetière, ‘she is your prize, sir.’
It was over. The unthinkable had been achieved. As swiftly as it had commenced it ended, Frenchmen motionless and open-mouthed lowered weapons as Jack’s men stood threatening, muskets levelled and bayonets bloodied.
Marines were herding French sailors away from their captain, Packer prodding with a bayonet in encouragement, ready to kill yet more if needed.
Cutlasses and pistols littered the deck, gathered greedily by a bloodied sailor and a pair of marines, one lacking his shako. Tom Clutterbuck, Jack mentally noted.
The French captain proffered his stained sword. Lowering his own, Jack accepted with an inclination of his head.
Lapenotière slipped his sword quickly into its sheath, moved closer and growled, ‘The honour is mine, I believe,’ his hand outstretched for the Frenchman’s sword.
‘As you wish,’ Jack gasped, his lungs heaving from exertion and pain.
Jack limped away, calling on Packer to bring his men. He fell at the rail, weak and exhausted. In an instant, Tom Clutterbuck was at his side raising him to his feet. ‘Come along, sir. You’ve done enough for today. Let’s get your wound looked at,’ he said, noting the bloodstain on Vizzard’s breeches. A gangway had been lowered across the gap between the two vessels and Tom helped him cross it safely.
Down in the cabin, Lieutenant Lapenotière pushed open the door and grinned at Jack. ‘She is a most handsome prize we captured today, Jack. Worth a small fortune I shouldn’t wonder. Now I must get her and her crew to England. I can spare my bosun and Mister Bird with a couple of hands, but will have need of some of your lads to provide guard.’ He sat and picked up a flask of water, and near emptied it in one go. ‘I have their crew battened down below deck with a couple of your lads but will need at least two more to ensure a happy return to Portsmouth.’
Jack looked at Tom, pulling his shirt down over the wound, hastily stitched with a couple of turns of catgut, which was all it required. Tom returned the look, understanding reaching his eyes. ‘Oh no, oh not me, sir. Please no. My place is with you, Mister Vizzard.’
‘I cannot spare Sergeant Packer, Tom, and you must see Lieutenant Lapenotière is correct. I will issue you with an order, appointing you as acting corporal. If you discharge your duty satisfactorily, as I am confident you will, it will be ratified in time. It is inadequate reward for your past and present loyalty.’ Jack gave the young marine a knowing look. ‘Pick three others to accompany you and make sure those Frenchies are handed over the moment you land at Portsmouth.’
Acting Corporal! The news was unexpected and brought a smile to the young man’s face.
‘Very well, sir. I am mightily grateful to you. I shall collect my kit and go across now.’ He saluted and left the cabin.
‘Thank you, Jack. That was well done. The lad will be fine with Joshua Holt in command.’
‘He has been a good support to me over the years. It is small return for his past service,’ he added enigmatically. His thoughts returned to the night at the Vicarage, when Tom Clutterbuck surprised him in the darkness, just after he had dispensed his own justice to Mary’s nemesis.
* * * * *
The surf splashed noisily against the shingle beach masking the marines’ muttering, as the cutter’s boat slid with a rush onto French land. A half-moon danced between clouds which seemed to sway slowly across the black sky, as Joe Packer leaped onto the shells and pebbles of the foreshore. A sailor quickly followed, pulling hard on the painter, and Jack and his men vaulted over the sides in pairs, up to their knees in the icy Channel water. He stared ahead, willing his eyes to become used to the darkened landscape.
‘Quietly now, lads. Move up to yonder ledge and make ready,’ Jack whispered.
He trod slowly and warily on the wet sand towards a rocky ledge some twenty or thirty yards in from the water’s edge. His ears stretching and eyes straining for any sign the landing had been observed. Once he had his breathing under control, he looked for the Frenchman.
‘Monsieur Bontecou, if you please. Which way from here? I can see no path off this beach.’ Jack studied the sullen looking face of his guide by the thin moonlight penetrating the wispy clouds moving slowly up the coast from the Atlantic.
‘Over there to your left, Lieutenant. A narrow path will take us through the dunes to the coast road.’
Jack looked across to where his sergeant squatted with the platoon of marines, dressed in unfamiliar green canvas jackets and grey trousers. He crawled on hands towards him, keeping low. He grunted as he knelt beside his friend.
‘Time to move off, Joe. Up to the left, there is a track – so our French friend tells me. Lead the lads off please, no less than three yards apart. Keep your eyes and ears sharp, Joe.’
Growling an order in a low and commanding voice, Joe Packer moved off into the darkness, followed by half of the men. Jack watched for a moment, then waving to Bontecou he gestured to the man to walk ahead. He followed, his eyes narrowed, as he stared into the darkness, alert for any unusual sounds. The marines moved silently through the sand dunes collecting in groups at the road.
‘Move to the sides of the road men, two files not less than six feet apart.’ He whispered the order, his head twisting from side to side as he waited for a challenge which never came. ‘Sergeant Packer, take the lead if you would. We have a long march ahead, so let us be gone.’
He slung the musket over his shoulder, wrapped his jacket tighter about his neck and tugged at the leather gloves, lacing his fingers together against the cold. He walked with care, listening to the sound of the sea away to his left, as he followed.
‘The port is an hour away, Lieutenant, but the town is not a fortress. It should be easy to meet my master. I think you are perhaps too cautious yes to bring so many men.’ Bontecou stepped alongside Jack, his presence unwelcome, obviously so to the Frenchman.
‘If it is so monsieur, please be so good as to explain why you advised a different landing-site?’
‘Ah yes, naturally. The coast here has many cliffs, and this bay I thought would be easy for landing. I do not say the area is entirely free of soldiers. However, certain beaches are guarded because of Royalists like me who seek the protection of England’s court.’ He looked intently at Jack. ‘You should alert your sergeant, there are small patrols and it will be necessary for us to avoid them. The beach which had been selected is one such which is monitored, this I know.’
A murmured curse slipped from Jack’s lips, and he sent a private ahead to direct Joe Packer to halt the advance party. ‘It would have been helpful to have known of this before, monsieur.’
But what the Frenchman said made some sense. If indeed the other beaches were being watched, the caution was warranted. Why was this beach clear of troops though? His mind worked at the riddle without answer. Not enough men under arms he speculated; or they are no
t prepared for war on France’s own shoreline. He could not help the suspicions which remained in his head, but he would, he must remain alert for any sign of falseness or treachery. He looked hard at the Frenchman’s face, seeing no guile or artifice in his eyes. Bontecou raised his shoulders in the irritating manner so typical of Frenchmen.
‘Very well. Proceed monsieur.’ He gestured with his open hand, inviting Bontecou forward. As the man slipped quietly ahead in the dark, Jack placed an arm in front of one of the marines. ‘Stay to the rear, Jamie, and keep your eyes on our arse-end for me.’ The stocky Scotsman, a man with a reputation for keen eyesight, merely nodded and wiped his nose on the sleeve of his oiled jacket, dropping silently behind.
He listened to the soft crump of feet moving steadily ahead of him, smiling at the memory of the whistles and oaths which had greeted his order for the men to place long woollen stockings over their boots. It had seemed a simple measure, designed to silence the nails of the boots on stone or gravel, and for a time, perhaps half an hour, it worked. Now however, the wool had worn through, as the sandy track gave way to coarse gravel and stones, and the strident crack of nails on stones could be heard. In a moment of irrational thought, he decided he would raise the problem with the regiment’s cobbler on return to Portsmouth. If I return, he corrected himself.
Silhouettes took form ahead and he quickly sensed some difficulty, confirmed as the crouching shape of Joe Packer approached rapidly.
‘Two guards up ahead, sir. Slouching around chatterin’ and drinkin’. Brandy I reckon, I was close enough to smell it!’ His teeth showed against the dark of his browned face, not lost since his return from New Holland. ‘There’s a derelict farm just off to the right of `em. Had a sniff around there too, but couldn’t see or hear any more Frenchies. Reckon they are all alone like.’
‘Monsieur’, he whispered, beckoning Bentecou to him. ‘Your opinion, if you please. Are only two guards to be expected, or should I anticipate they will have others nearby?’
The Frenchman looked preoccupied but answered quickly enough.
‘I would doubt there is a patrol nearby. ‘My thought is another two will be sent from the town to relieve them. There will be more watching the port I say, seeking more émigrés.’
‘Quite possibly monsieur, but I think we take a flanking route and leave them alone for now. I may have to deal with them on our return.’ He pulled the straps of his knapsack tighter. ‘Joe, we shall head across the fields behind the farm. Take the men off if you please.’
He watched Packer’s retreating back, glanced behind to ensure Jamie the Scot was alert, and moved off behind Bontecou, his carbine held across his chest. To his left could be heard the surf rushing over the shingle beach. The chill air pinched at his hair and ears. He followed the line of silent figures into the gloom across frozen fields, which lay bare and barren. The farm could be seen with no lights showing, giving every indication of being deserted, neither human voices nor animals to be heard. The line closed up as men slowed to pass over a wall, the stones of which had fallen haphazardly about its base.
‘Keep moving’ he hissed, ‘what’s keeping you?’
‘Sorry sir, man in front has stopped. Think `e’s `urt sir.’
‘Hell and damnation,’ Jack cursed. ‘Let me see.’ Vaulting the low wall and ignoring the pain in his leg he found a man on the ground, with another leaning over him. Peering into the darkness he recognised Private Hannan, a man regarded by Joe Packer as a “fine shot, and handy with a bayonet, but keep him off the ale”. He crouched beside the soldier. ‘Hannan is it not? What is it man?’
The man’s face was twisted in pain, and on leaning closer Jack could see the left foot at an unnatural angle.
‘Sorry, sir. I stumbled on a rock coming over the wall. Busted me ankle I reckon. Heard a crack and it fuckin’ hurts. Beggin’ your pardon, sir.’
‘Can you get up… no, of course not. Look here, Hannan, I cannot leave a man with you, and plainly you cannot continue.’ He was irritated at the unwelcome complication, but refused to let it show. ‘Make yourself as comfortable as you can, I will not leave you behind. Stay close to this wall and I shall have you collected on our return.’ Jack pulled him up against the wall, checked his water bottle and slapped him on the shoulder. ‘Keep quiet and keep alert!’
The line moved forward, Jack now more anxious at the passing of time. He decided to increase the pace. He half ran to the head of the line, urgently commanding the men to speed up as he went by. Reaching Joe Packer, he said, ‘we need to move a bit faster, Joe. Time is slipping by if we are to make our rendezvous with this agent.’ He stood aside as the men moved on, the step just noticeably quicker. He took his place in the centre as the men walked briskly towards the town. It seemed colder and he rubbed his ears introducing a little warmth, as he strained for any unusual sounds, his eyes training from left to right, keeping his distance from the grey shadowy form of the man ahead. Freezing grass cracked under his boots, sounding like pistol shots to his sensitive ears, each footfall bringing an expectation of entrapment and capture. His mouth was dry and his head throbbed with tension.
After the months of mundane, banal routine of barrack duty, the days craving some adventurous duty, he was now experiencing it. He could sense the unease in the air, exuded by these men who had no comprehension of his task, their duty to follow his lead and obey his commands. “For I am a man under authority, having soldiers under me: and I say to this man, Go, and he goeth; and to another, Come, and he cometh; and to my servant, Do this, and he doeth it.” The thought came unbidden to his mind. Where from? Of course, the bible he decided. One of the Gospels – but which, he could not recall. A distant memory of the words of a sermon by the vicar of Saint Giles his parish church. Odd how such things came to mind, when his active brain ought to be directed to matters more serious and immediate.
The minutes ticked by; he pulled the watch from his pocket but could see nothing of the hands. He dare not stop to light a match. He stumbled into the man in front.
‘My pardon,’ he whispered to the tall marine, pushing forward to where Joe Packer was crouched behind a low wall.
‘There’s another patrol, sir; but half a dozen of `em this time.’ Packer nodded in the direction where a ragged group of men were slowly making their way up the winding road towards them.
Vizzard turned and gestured to the marines to lie flat, as he had trained them. Instantly the gloom and ground mist consumed the small force. He sat with his back to the wall, slowing his breathing as the low French voices approached, his heart thumping in his chest. He had, for a moment, considered attacking the French, setting an ambush. He had just as quickly dismissed the notion. He did not want to attract attention to his presence. It was a clandestine mission after all. ‘At any cost’. He could not risk jeopardizing the expedition for the doubtful benefit of killing half a dozen Frenchmen. In two or three long minutes they were gone, and he slowly raised himself, judging it safe to continue.
‘We must be close now, Joe. It’s time to separate the men and send in the first of them.’ In planning with the Colonel, Jack had outlined his ideas to enter the town in small groups. Packer was skeptical, and had argued, with some passion, for the safer option to keep together. He opened his mouth to repeat the advice, but Jack silenced him with a stern expression which left Packer in no doubt Vizzard was in not in the mood for further debate on the subject.
He nodded towards the forward group of men, who rose slowly and, in crouched positions, moved towards the wall. With a hand on the first man’s arm Jack smiled, inserting a confidence into the act he did not feel, and watched as they slowly walked with exaggerated casualness towards the town. Once they were lost in the darkness he summoned the next group of four men, and then waved for Bentecou to approach.
‘Now monsieur we go,’ he said curtly. ‘Joe, leave two squads behind, one either side of the road, to cover our return. Follow me as soon as they are in place. I will wait for you at the end of
the road.’ Beckoning to his French guide he crawled over the wall and set off, eyes flicking from side to side. Packer quickly detailed two squads, whispered an order and set off after his friend, his mouth set in a grim line.
Chapter 7
On a cold stone bench overlooking St James’ Park, William Pitt blew on his hands to warm them. He had been sitting alone with his thoughts for half an hour, after the warmth of the Long Room, and the hot air generated by his officials and admirals. He needed to think and formulate his administration’s policy for what must be a conflict which could envelope all of Europe. His advisers had been full of suggestions, ideas, fantastical schemes, words of caution; the usual mixture of bulls and doves. He rose and walked. A brisk walk always aided his thinking and he walked with a quick firm step; his head erect, his appearance haughty.
It was inevitable now; the execution of Louis had settled any doubt. What could, what must England do? Our army is weak; short of men, short of equipment, short of leadership. We must then buy time to rebuild and seek alliances within Europe. Alliances will involve money, a good deal of it, and everyone seeking to advance their own interests. Thank God the Navy was in good condition. Black Dick Howe had ensured it was; and his Corps of Marines. More must be done to get the men – we have the ships, just enough but damnation we need the men.
Information! We need intelligence of France’s intentions. Now at last a useful man had become known. His name kept from him, but an educated engineer and artilleryman, one who had studied and lived on the continent. This afternoon he had learned this spy was on his way to London with much needed information. Courtesy of the Navy. Good, he thought. “But when the blast of war blows in our ears.” The poet Shakespeare naturally; he always had a ready word or a line to describe the moment. Well we shall hear the blast soon enough and this time we must be ready, and this time we must defeat them utterly and completely.
THE GLORIOUS FIRST: The first fleet action of the French Revolutionary War (The Jack Vizzard Chronicles Book 2) Page 7
