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

by M Howard Morgan

  ‘My sweet Mary, never forget how much I love you and need you. I will never hazard us unreasonably or unnecessarily. I will though, I must do my duty and serve my country. You do know I must.’

  She cupped his face in her hands, smiled and said, ‘Oh, Jack. I do understand. Naturally I understand. I am so fearful this war is to be so terrible and so dreadful to our country that I feel you cannot survive it. And to place yourself in the heart of it, taking on so much. You must come back. My heart would break if I were ever to lose you.’

  The opening of the study door caused Jack to disengage and stand, an embarrassed expression lingering a moment too long which Henry Vizzard, even with failing eyesight, was able to observe.

  ‘Now what is to do with the pair of you?’ he asked, smiling toward his daughter-in-law. ‘Has he distressed you, Mary? If he has, I’ll have him horsewhipped! No sooner than he arrives home and bless me, he has you in tears. Come, come now; what’s amiss, child?’

  ‘You should take a seat father; it is after all, your study,’ Jack answered. ‘Make yourself comfortable and I will tell you; but only that which I feel I can and even that may be too much no doubt.’

  Henry Vizzard remained impassive, with difficulty, as his son recounted the events of recent weeks.

  * * * * *

  The wood-smoke drifted across the low beamed room, blown from the inglenook by a down draught. The wool merchant in the corner coughed and clutched a handkerchief to his nose and blew with vigour, and continued in low tones to his neighbour, exhorting him to accept the price offered, met with a slow shake of the head by the seller. The latter understood the demand for wool would rise in the coming months and was not about to sell cheaply.

  Lieutenant Vizzard observed them over his tankard as he waited for his friend to join him. The Ram was a second home and he and the landlord, Bill Brice, old friends. Brice had watched and aided as the two Vizzard boys grew to become men. George, the eldest, had not been seen nor heard of in nigh on a decade and must now be thought long since perished at sea. Jack thought of his lost brother with great affection and sadness, tinged with chagrin as his mentor and childhood companion had simply left the family home with not a word.

  A small roadside tavern, at the lower end of the village, adjacent to The Old London Road, the Ram was popular with villagers and travellers alike. The thatch was worn in places, but still waterproof. The ridge displayed a pair of peacocks, skilfully fashioned from local reed harvested from nearby Sharpness, the trademark of the local master thatcher, Will Peacock. Tendrils of ivy covered most of the walls.

  A chimney, the mellow, yellow, brickwork spalled and flaking, the mortar in need of re-pointing, poked impudently from the centre. Wisps of wood-smoke wrapped around the wrought iron weather vane fitted to the top; a long-horned ram, cleverly made by the village blacksmith when the inn was his property, some years ago.

  Bill Brice had bought the inn on leaving the Navy many years before, and turned his hand to brewing. He called his beer ‘Old Spot’, after the popular local species of pig. The Ram had a large room used by the men of the village on a Saturday evening, where they would stand and drink his cider and home brewed ale until the landlord threw them out, either when they became too drunk to stand, or the coins in their pockets had gone. Bill was not a man to give credit to mill workers. A smaller room, Bill called it ‘The Gunroom’ and kept it in a more comfortable state, was for the use of some of his more ‘genteel’ customers. A large blue ensign decorated one wall, and a miscellany of naval artefacts gathered dust on shelves and sills around the room.

  The golden sandstone walls extracted centuries before from the local Cotswold Hills, displayed the staining of smoke of many years. Traces of straw on the flagstones forming the floor, gave evidence of the farm hands that had been drinking earlier. A thin layer of tobacco smoke hung beneath the beamed ceiling, swirling each time the door opened, allowing the chill, damp air to swoop in.

  A captain, tall and commanding in the uniform of the 28th regiment of foot, filled the doorway as the evening sun sank behind him, throwing a long shadow into the room. A pair of old heads, grumbling in a corner, smiled as two younger men slipped discreetly from the room to the door at the rear.

  ‘Vizzard! You wretched dog! Stand aside and let me chase the rabbit. Brice, Bricey - a bottle of Harvey’s and large glasses, if you will,’ he growled with a smile. ‘M’friend and I have some time together at last and I have a ploughman’s thirst on me’, he said as he slapped his arm around Jack’s shoulder and walked to their table by the window.

  Bill Brice muttered an oath and bent under the counter to lift a large blue bottle from a case he kept for his own consumption. Mister Vizzard, as he now knew him, was the son he never had and he was fonder of him than he ever let on. He had cuffed him about the ears as boy, paddled his arse with a cricket bat when the boy had raided his cider press, but had also aided and abetted him when he had turned off the evil vicar of the parish; this was before Vizzard had escaped to New Holland and none in the village knew of it either. Never would know of it from Bill, who swore to keep the secret safe that night. The captain, Mister Mountjoy, the heir in all but name to the Lucie estate, also knew the truth Bill suspected, but never had there been any talk between them. But Bill had seen it in Mountjoy’s eyes all those years ago. He knew but he had protected Jack too. So Bill said nothing, chewed on his baccy and continued brewing and serving ale and cider.

  ‘So good to see you again, m’friend. How are things with the Corps? I must say, Jack, I had not expected to see you again. Fully expected you to be at sea or hear you had been murdered by the natives in Africa, old chap. And what of this war? Should be good for promotion, don’t you think?’

  ‘We are kept busy enough, Giles. I have leave of absence before joining the fleet and ‘tis good to see you, old friend.’

  Giles Mountjoy was a good friend from childhood and Jack had cause to be grateful for his friend’s loyalty and discretion. He was possibly the only one who knew the truth of Jack’s crime; he and Bill Brice. Giles had shadowed him from Gloucester on the wild night so many years ago, when he had taken the law into his own control and disposed of an evil man; a cleric who had raped Mary and engineered her trial on false charges ensuring her transportation to New Holland for seven years. His father’s determined intervention had eventually brought about a Royal Pardon and Fate had reunited him with his beloved in the penal colony.

  ‘I am well, Giles. Quite well, I thank you. A minor scratch or two from which I am recovering with no complications, but in truth, as fit as I ever was.’ He lowered his voice against eager ears. ‘We have been busy in France, Giles, and I believe there will be more warm work in the weeks and months ahead.’

  Mountjoy’s eyebrows lifted a notch.

  ‘What are you about, my lad? God’s teeth you are up to something, I see it in your eyes. Never could keep a secret from me, now could you.’

  ‘The government, by which I mean Pitt, has seconded me from the Corps to do some dirty work for him, Giles.’ The glass in his hand wobbled imperceptibly as he related in scant words the briefing he had received at Walmer Castle.

  During his friend’s discreet confessional, Giles’ mind was working. It was rumoured the regiment would be marching to the south coast soon. He was of a mixed mind; the estate needed him, the family – he and Louise now had three sons and two daughters – but he was restless. If his friend was to be taking the war to France, he wanted to be involved.

  ‘If you are to take the war to France, Jack, then I want to be with you,’ he said. ‘The regiment is likely as not to move south and it should be possible for me to persuade the colonel to allow me some freedom from duty. Do you think your political masters could be persuaded to er… allow a keen fellow to participate? To mind your back, as it were; Lord knows your appalling fighting skills demand it, dear chap.’

  Jack laughed at the joke, knowing well that in their youth, Giles presented little challenge in the wr
estling games or shooting contests they arranged in the hills and woods above the village.

  ‘Perhaps best if I do not consult them, Giles. If your colonel will agree, who am I to raise objection. There is the matter of my sergeant, however. He has no time for officers, especially those from line regiments and I fear he long ago appointed himself as my personal guard!’

  ‘Hah, I look forward to meeting the man…I shall delight in showing him how a Gloucester officer behaves and fights the French! Consider it a bargain, my friend. My colonel is an obliging sort.’

  ‘The Corps is not for every man, Giles. We look to recruit the best men; they need to be healthy, strong and with some learning. I question if you have the required attributes, my friend!’ Jack laughed.

  ‘We are no longer children, Jack. You may have bested me when we played in the woods above the village but we are men now, Jack. I have trained and studied and have learned a thing or two, you know.’

  ‘I have no doubt my dear man. I sincerely wish you have the opportunity to demonstrate your prowess soon. Now, drink up and let me tell you what I have been doing since last we spoke.’

  * * * * *

  Summer came and slipped into autumn, with Giles Mountjoy variously at Littlehampton and Portsmouth with his regiment. Colonel Prescott had proved obdurate and refused Giles’ repeated applications for secondment.

  Chapter 12

  Hamilton Smith was sketching.

  It was a compulsion he could not avoid, never did want to give up. Drawings of flora and fauna filled his rooms, as did sketches of buildings of both antiquity and contemporary. His travels on the continent had allowed him to visit many of the capital cities, which he had explored intimately, sketching and painting his way from country to country. He had become fascinated by colour. For half an hour or more he had sat on a camp chair, observing, waiting for the light to come right, before ever lifting a pencil.

  Horse Guards he had drawn many times, but now it was one of the more recent additions to the northern end of Whitehall he was now studying; the First Lord’s House, built recently by Cockerell and much admired by Hamilton Smith. Sunlight flashed on the windows, sending secret signals, as might a heliograph, to the disinterested populace intent only on journeying, usually to or from Westminster or Saint Margaret’s. His pencil moved across the paper; short, neat strokes and soft, broad infilling, adding shadow as the piece took form. Eyes lifted frequently to measure structure and perspective and his left hand danced around the paper. He was pleased with the progress of his work and enjoyed the leisure time, which had become a rare thing of late. He felt the sun’s warmth of the sun overhead and smiled with the pleasure it brought.

  Presently, he observed a servant leave by the front entrance and with practiced skill manoeuvre his way across the busy traffic rumbling and snorting north and south along the broad, muddy avenue, littered with equine droppings. He was a mature man, who walked with purpose and with an unusual gait, as though somewhat affected by alcohol, as indeed he was.

  The odd thing, thought the artist, was the man appeared to be generally following a path which would bring his journey to a conclusion directly in front of his line of sight. Three or four minutes or so later, it did. The man nodded to Hamilton Smith by way of obeisance and, in a voice more accustomed to shouting orders at seamen said,

  ‘Good day to you, sir. Do I have the honour of addressing Charles Hamilton Smith, sir?’

  ‘May I enquire as to the originator of your question?’

  The servant, bemused at the response, pulled at his neck-cloth, a garment he found uncomfortable and novel, grinned a seaman’s grin and inclined his head over his right shoulder.

  ‘I am correct though ain’t I, sir? His Lordship, Earl Chatham, the First Lord hisself, commands me to request your attendance upon him; if convenient for you at this time, sir.’

  Intrigued as to why the First Lord should seek him out, he stood, collecting his camping chair placing his paper and pencils into a valise.

  ‘I should be most honoured to attend on his Lordship. Please, lead the way.’

  Navigating the carriages and horses with a helmsman’s skill Hamilton Smith was guided across the thoroughfare by his escort. To the west side of the entrance hall there was a small, all but concealed entrance into the building. The stairs led up to the vestibule on the first floor. The servant turned right into the library. It was a large room, the largest in the building with three windows along the west elevation, overlooking the mews in Spring Gardens and filling the room with natural light. It had been Howe’s favourite room when he was First Lord.

  Hamilton Smith had never met Chatham. He saw a man in his late-thirties, handsome in appearance with a confident visage, a long chin between prominent cheekbones, dressed in fashionable but not ostentatious clothing; a deep Navy Blue coat with a high collar, over a white linen shirt. Intelligent blue almond-shape eyes beneath dark brows looked up in greeting as he entered the room, behind the servant.

  John Pitt, Second Earl of Chatham, Knight of the Order of the Garter and First Lord of Admiralty, was comfortable in a leather chair, adjacent to the fireplace, The Times spread across his knee and a tall cup of coffee in his hand, which he promptly placed on the table to his left. He played with a heavy, red ring on his left hand.

  ‘Ah, Hamilton Smith, thank you for accepting my invitation, most kind in you. I do hope I have caused no inconvenience? Will you take coffee? Or something…’

  ‘Coffee will be most welcome, m’Lord.’

  Chatham waved him to a matching chair.

  ‘See to it please, Walter,’ he instructed.

  ‘You will be wondering why I wished to meet with you, no doubt, Hamilton Smith. M’brother mentioned you recently, in connection with some business in France. Pointed you out at The Cocoa Tree the evening afore last in point of fact, but you vanished as we made to approach you.’

  Hamilton Smith took the chair opposite the First Lord, hooked his ankles together as he stretched in the comfort of the soft leather. It was unfortunate Chatham had seen him at the Cocoa Tree. One of the lesser-known clubs and wagering dens, he felt more secure within its walls than at Boodles or Whites. It was a source of information, the life-blood of his clandestine work for His Majesty’s government.

  Yes, indeed he was curious at Chatham’s polite and informal summons. He had not met Chatham since his appointment to The Admiralty some eight years previously by his younger brother, William Pitt, the King’s prime minister. He was aware of the elder Pitt brother’s reputation however; a tendency to indolence and extravagance he was not universally regarded as an effective administrator; all but openly described by a few envious members of the nobility as a lacklustre member of the family. Chatham had refused to serve in the Americas against the colonial forces on a matter of principle, which suggested to Hamilton Smith a principled man of firm views who would not be anyone’s puppet. Instead he had been despatched to Gibraltar for years of tedious garrison duty. Hamilton Smith was not a man to carry prejudice; Chatham alone of the cabinet was a professional and experienced soldier, with a soldier’s eye for detail and opportunity. For that reason if no other he was happy to meet his Lordship with an open mind.

  ‘The Prime Minister gives me to understand you are… er, of assistance to his administration of foreign affairs in matters pertaining to our friends on the continent. I, that is, m’brother, requires of me to devise plans and ideas to damage the damned Frenchies and to divert them from their intentions in the United Provinces. We, er I, had hoped you could be prevailed upon to assist me in this matter.’

  Lord Chatham sometimes felt the burden of his title with the weight of opinion in social circles comparing him to his father, the First Earl of Chatham, a distinguished leader of the nation during the Seven Years’ War and also to his younger brother, William, the King’s Prime Minister.

  Poor John Pitt, thought Hamilton Smith. Often seen as living in the shadow of his precocious younger brother, William, who had alwa
ys outshone, had always been the favourite of their late father. Now the First Lord was looking to him to help him with his ministerial duties, indeed, with the conduct of the naval war.

  ‘M’Lord, my business with the government is not something which should ever be discussed outside these walls, and never with any other party, save for the King and his premier’, he cautioned the First Lord. ‘It is true I am occasionally in a position to render some service to our country of a discreet nature. I have travelled much on the continent and have some knowledge of engineering and artillery; and some have spoken kind words of my work, which may be of help to His Majesty’s forces, perhaps the Navy in particular.’

  ‘Yes, yes, indeed it is of the Navy of which I speak. I wish to use it wisely in this war but am in different minds as to the best means to direct it in these troubled times. We are so scattered it vexes me to decide how to best use the squadrons.’

  Chatham’s initial air of confidence appeared to slip momentarily, until he made a conscious attempt to regain a dominant presence.

  For a moment or two, Hamilton Smith felt a degree of sympathy for the First Lord. But only for a moment.

  ‘The King’s Prime Minister has charged me with seeking out enterprising officers amongst the fleet and the Marine Corps’, said Hamilton Smith. ‘He believes the country needs time to build alliances and increase our strength. He therefore seeks to take the war to the enemy on their shore. The army is in a pitiful state, m’Lord. Fortunately the Navy is better equipped to defend our interests, due, in no small part to the efforts of your noble predecessor, Lord Howe, who is a naval lord of many fine qualities.’

  ‘Yes, yes. A fine officer, indeed, but he no longer has the responsibility – the responsibility has been mine these last eight years, sir, and I am most anxious and determined to make a success of it in this war, Hamilton Smith.’ Chatham spoke tersely. ‘And you can help me achieve… you will not find me unthankful I can assure you. What’s to do? How can we best cause confusion and discourage our enemy? Hm?’