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

by M Howard Morgan

  Hamilton Smith thought it questionable Chatham had the force of character to manage the admirals and officials and politics of the office. Neither did he care, for the man is not best positioned in this war and will not last long in this office, he decided. The office of First Lord required a more dynamic, visionary individual to the one before him now. The Admiralty should be served by an experienced administrator who should also be a distinguished sea officer, in his opinion. Chatham had, he reminded himself, argued with cabinet colleagues, successfully too, for the Corps of Marines to receive pensions. Perhaps there was more to Chatham than he and the public presently understood.

  ‘There are a number of tasks which, if performed well by those selected to perform them, will reflect great credit on the service and on the Admiralty. M’Lord, I have a number of ideas of modest goals; the chief object must be to cause the French to suffer losses in ships, in materiel, of personnel and of supplies of every description. M’Lord, this war will become ever more brutal and, mark me sir, ever more widespread. We must fight our enemy with total resolve and with total ruthlessness if we are to survive and prosper. For most certainly, France will endeavour to destroy us.’

  Hamilton Smith’s passion had carried him beyond what he might have said in other circumstances. His colour changed imperceptibly, not because he regretted his words, only his too obvious display of patriotism.

  ‘My Lord Chatham’, he continued. ‘Robespierre is in a precarious position. For many months past he has sought to conscript Frenchmen, in their hundreds of thousands. The country is exhausting stocks and has, I am liberty to tell you, found a new partner with which to conduct trade; I refer naturally to the United States of America, as we must call the former colonies.’ Hamilton Smith rose from his chair and slowly paced. ‘Sir, France is even now transacting business across the Atlantic. They are moving gold clandestinely and bargaining for grain and beef and sugar and other goods.’ He paused to see the effect his words had and drained the coffee from his cup. ‘It will be a convoy the size of which we have not seen before and it must be found and taken, m’Lord. My estimation is it will gather in the Chesapeake; however, it is the destination port I am more interested in. My information is poor on this but my belief is the convoy will make for Brest. It is the logical, indeed the only practical choice Robespierre has.’

  ‘You wish to lay a trap, Hamilton Smith? Is that what you are saying? Chatham’s eyes drilled into those of his guest.

  ‘Indeed, m’Lord, It will be a prize to make many men as rich as Croesus’, he said. ‘Come, m’Lord, let me show you on the map something of what I propose’.

  Chapter 13

  The November waxing moon was nearing its final quarter and the temperature of the sea had fallen to near freezing. Flakes of snow floated from the land, swirling about the masts and sails of the ship, dusting the rigging with a crystalline sheen. The sea frothed from the bows as nervously they approached Pointe Sainte-Mathieu. The task before them involved both obvious and latent danger and required intense concentration. It was to be preferred to the monotony of fleet duty or convoy shepherding.

  The schooner was now less than ten miles from Brest; they were sailing down the enemy’s throat and all on board knew it. Every man felt the tension, realised muscles had contracted, aware danger stalked every mile they advanced; from the forts and batteries along the granite cliffs, from the possibility of an encounter with a French frigate or privateer, but chiefly from the danger of a lee shore should the wind change. The waters through which they sailed concealed a confusion of wicked rocks any one of which could tear the ship to matchsticks in minutes.

  Jack made his way aft to where the schooner’s commander, John Lapenotière was standing, now more relaxed than he had been during the slow and cautious approach through some of the most hazardous waters in Europe.

  Lieutenant Laponetière navigated with extreme care, sensing the run of the tide through his well-planted feet on the deck timbers, feeling the wind on his cheeks. Now they were running south-south-east and a half east along the Chausée des Pierres Noires, to the south of the notorious Black Rocks, lining the course into Brest like shadowy sentinels of death.

  ‘Alter course to east by north and a half north, now, if you please, Mister Almy,’ commanded Lapenotière to the ship’s master. ‘Do you see the rock to the south, Jack? It’s the Parquet Rock and has claimed many a fine vessel. Ahead is Pointe du Toulinguet, there are a number of batteries there, and beyond are the village of Cameret and your destination, Jack.’

  The entrance to Le Goulet, the channel leading to Brest, acted as a tunnel along which snow and sleet lanced at Vizzard’s face like needles. Salt encrusted his hair, where it hung from beneath his oilskin cap. His eyes stung and he felt chilled to the bones.

  ‘It is a fine night for an excursion, John,’ he grunted.

  The coming landing held more trepidation for Vizzard than those of the summer now past. The several landings he had made with Lieutenant Lapenotière had, in the main, been uneventful affairs. Gathering of information and preparing sketches and questions of the occasional Royalist supporter; only once had he had to fight his way from zealous guards. It was at Saint Malo two months ago. Now, Giles Mountjoy and he had been ordered by Lord Chatham to do more, to damage French installations and to survey the French naval vessels in Brest. The words of his latest order were, “My Lords of Admiralty judge it of benefit to the service to reconnoitre the Vauban Tower and, should you judge it practical to do so, to seek to destroy the building and any appurtenances.” His men were carrying more of Faversham’s finest powder, packed in stout paper sacks and stored in knapsacks. None had been heard to complain at the extra burden on previous excursions ashore.

  ‘Ease her off, Mister Almy. I’d like to anchor behind the point to starboard, Point Toulinguet according to the chart,’ Lieutenant Lapenotière ordered in a quiet manner. ‘Make it half a cable’s length; there is good holding ground and depth as best I recall.’ He had been here only once before, when the world was a more peaceful place. ‘The tide hereabouts has a marked rise and fall, so anchor well.’

  It was at the approach to Brest when HMS Childers had been attacked, nearly a year past. The Admiralty needed to know of changes to the defences since the last attack and the number and nature of vessels presently in the harbour.

  Captain Mountjoy stood huddled behind Laponetière, a comforter wrapped around his neck, as Jack nodded to Lapenotière and took up position by his side.

  ‘So happy your colonel was persuaded to release you at last, Giles. I merely hope you have no cause to regret joining our expeditions. They become decidedly… well, bloody dangerous at times!’

  ‘Hah. You have no idea just how tedious life in barracks can be, my lad. T’will make a refreshing change to have some excitement to face, let me tell you’, said Mountjoy, pulling a fisherman’s rough cap tighter on his head. ‘However, my dear, this manner of fighting a war of yours is contrary to all I know, I don’t mind saying. But let me show my worth and who knows, mayhap your colonel will find a vacancy for me.’

  Jack smiled, rubbing on his right ear lobe as he did so. ‘It is a means to an end, Giles, a means to an end.’

  ‘Sir, your orders `ave been completed, sir. The men are ready.’ Joe Packer grunted, approaching the officers. He relaxed the leg which, though now well healed, remained a source of discomfort to him.

  Giles and Jack had formed a plan to take a party of men ashore with the intention of causing maximum damage in the attack on the Vauban tower at the entrance to the Goulet at Cameret, timed to take place before Nimble had to slip away on the ebb tide just before dawn, if the wind was kind. If it were not, Laponetière and his beloved vessel and his crew would be in hot water, for which Jack would be entirely responsible. He shivered.

  ‘Do you judge our appearance as a Dutchman will deceive the French, Jack?’ Mountjoy whispered. Lieutenant Laponetière had attempted to disguise his craft and had hung the appropriate ens
ign to add to the deceit.

  ‘We have a chance, Giles. If we anchor in the lee offered by the cliffs we may even escape observation entirely,’ Jack replied, with more insouciance than he felt.

  With near total silence the small vessel hove to and silently slipped an anchor into the freezing water, as men moved in response to orders issued earlier in the day and rehearsed during half a dozen similar excursions along the French coast in the last six months.

  Jack hoped to add to the information Lapenotière would collect from his position. Midshipman Dicky Bird would take a boat and take soundings to add to the chart, which was deficient, and masquerade as a guard boat.

  ‘Away with you then, Jack. We’ll have the boats ready to take you off at six bells in the middle watch. That’s …’

  ‘I am by now quite familiar with the Navy’s system of announcing the time, John, thank you’, Jack said with a broad smile. ‘Be sure you watch the fireworks. I hope they entertain you as much as the French. I fervently pray we get out of here alive.’

  ‘God speed, Jack’, said Lapenotière, clasping Jack’s right hand in both of his, ‘make the devils pay and we’ll get away as fast as my Nimble will allow, and that is speedy, have no fear, my friend.’

  Two boats, carried aboard for the purpose, slipped into the night, rowlocks muffled with rags and tar, the marines’ faces dirty with slush and again, on his express orders, uniforms were not worn. His men had come to terms with Jack’s odd ways; Vizzard’s Vandals, they were being called by the sailors. Regarded as undisciplined, dirty, surly and insolent, they had nonetheless become feared as ruthless, efficient fighters. Trained by Packer and Jack Vizzard, they now cared little for the spit and polish of garrison duty, for field days with immaculate, regular lines advancing on defended positions. Vizzard was unorthodox, and Packer, always the smartest soldier in the Portsmouth Division, was now one of the unkempt when on one of the ‘Guvnor’s Frolics’ as he now termed them.

  But they respected him. Trusted him to bring them back from wherever they landed on the enemy’s coast. From Dunkirk to St Malo, they had caused damage and disorder, chaos and fear among the populace. And Jack was fiercely proud of them.

  The cold, cruel sea slapped against the rocks as Jack shelved the boat on the spit of shingle beach, urging the ten men of his boat ashore with a whispered, ‘Out and take up positions.’

  The Irishman, Michael O’Farrell, was the first ashore, leaping cat-like onto the wet sand before scrabbling uphill to take up his favoured position at the head of the platoon. Joe Packer, in the second boat with Giles Mountjoy, dropped to one knee beside him, as others joined and spread along the edge of the beach, which shelved steeply up to a rocky outcrop.

  Vizzard strode through them all, lying prone next to the big Irishman. ‘Hear anything, O’Farrell?’

  ‘Thort I heard a faint voice, if the wind’s roight, sor’ he whispered. ‘Over yonder.’ He pointed with his nose to the left. With his head motionless, Vizzard extended his right arm, calling the men forward.

  ‘To the left, Joe’, instinctively knowing his sergeant was by his side. ‘Paddy thinks he heard a voice’.

  Packer and O’Farrell slid forward into a ditch and disappeared within seconds, the night all around silent, save for the gentle lapping of the sea against the shore behind them.

  A hoot from fifty yards ahead and Jack rose and moved forward, the remainder of the men following in an extended straggle, either side of the track. A minute later and the grinning Irishman whispered, ‘Just two of `em, sor. The sarge an’ I did for `em.’

  ‘Very well, Paddy. Let’s not loiter – scout ahead for any others. Where is Sergeant Packer?

  ‘Come with me, sor, if you’d be so good,’ he addressed Captain Mountjoy. ‘Sergeant Packer is going after them Frogs like the clappers and I best get him back, afore he kills every Frog for miles. He’s fricking melancholy as a gib cat, an’ likely to get hisself in trouble without Michael O’Farrell to watch his back.’

  The large Irishman loped forward, wolf-like and exuding power, his bayonet, edged in glistening crimson, gripped hard in his right hand. Mountjoy followed tight-lipped and eyes wide. The rest of the platoon followed, the men in a loose formation along the track, as heavier snow followed them from the rear.

  A hundred yards further on a low hoot alerted Jack. He halted the platoon and edged along a ditch on the right side of the track. Hidden under a clump of bushes he found his sergeant.

  ‘The patrol is about fifty yards ahead, sir, moving towards the fort. They must be posting piquets. Might be expecting us, d’you think?’ Packer kept his voice uncharacteristically low.

  ‘Possibly, Joe,’ he whispered, ‘but the French will be cautious hereabouts. Brest is the largest harbour they have and will be well guarded now we are at war. And that is why we’re here, don’t forget. To make the buggers sweat and keep them wondering where we will hurt them next.’

  Two French soldiers were pacing and muttering in the dark, making enough noise to identify their location.

  ‘Looks as though you and O’Farrell will have more bayonet practice, Joe. We must reach the fort unseen and unheard. Surprise is our key weapon.’

  A nod to the Irishman and the two marines crawled as silent as snakes along the ditches, ignoring the brambles and icy brackish water as they hugged the freezing earth.

  Jack waited as a muffled squeal reached his straining ears. It was quickly followed by another low hoot and he closed up with the platoon.

  He reached the body of one within a minute, the neck still bubbling with a trickle of blood, unseeing eyes staring to the night sky.

  ‘You’re getting clumsy, O’Farrell. I heard that one die.’

  ‘Sorry, sor,’ said the big Irishman. I’ll do better with the next.’ His teeth shone from his oily face.

  A half-moon slipped from the clouds illuminating Jack’s target. The three-storey tower was hexagonal, built in the previous century by Vauban as part of a network of defences to defend France. It was surrounded by a low bastion wall and was positioned at the end of a spit of land overlooking the Le Goulet, the strait of water giving access to Brest roads.

  The platoon moved forward with practiced stealth, not even glancing at the bodies, taking up offensive positions as the remainder of the French patrol reached the entrance to the tower’s drawbridge, already lowered in readiness. ‘That’s obliging of the Frogs,’ whispered Jack. ‘Are the grenadiers in position, Joe?’

  ‘Just there now, sir.’ Joe Packer answered, as the four designated men from the grenadier company reached their selected positions.

  The entrance to the polygonal tower was via a double-door gate, which opened lazily, the returning guards not expecting the explosions which sent body parts screaming as the marines used the limited supply of improvised grenades with deadly effect. The hours of practice on Southsea Common Jack had demanded of the men now paid dividends as the stunned defenders died at the gates.

  Marines tore through into the central courtyard, his modest force dividing as he had planned and practiced with them. Half made for the tower and its three stages, led by Giles Mountjoy with Sergeant Packer, the other half making for the dozen guns; barrels poking seaward like fingers of Black Death.

  ‘Fast as you like, Corporal Todd,’ he yelled, quickly glancing about. ‘I want them all disabled within two minutes. Captain Mountjoy and Sergeant Packer and his men will have dealt with the remaining guards within the time allowed. Or have died in the trying,’ he added to the marines’ backs as they set about the task of hammering barbed spikes into the touch-holes of the dozen 36-pounders lining the outer wall. ‘And don’t forget those charges, Todd. Keep them hidden under the carriages as I showed you.’

  Musket fire resounded through the tower, a blood-curdling squeal as a man died on a bayonet. ‘Please, God. Not one of mine’, he muttered, checking to see the guns being disabled, one by one.

  The ground at his feet exploded and he flinched as stone chips spa
ttered against his lower legs. Instinctively, his musket came to the shoulder and, through the swirling snow he saw a white face at the open window on the uppermost level of the tower. He fired and the face disappeared as his shot splintered brickwork, a foot from the man. ‘Hell and damnation!’ he shouted, quickly working through the reloading of his weapon, a task he had spent hours perfecting with a blindfold.

  Another scream as Giles Mountjoy reached the room and dispatched his would-be assassin in the act of loading for a second attempt and a raised thumb on an extended arm confirmed the tower had been cleared of Frenchmen.

  Shouting from his left spun him around and he dropped to one knee as four French guards ran into the courtyard from the accommodation building. ‘To me, corporal - on the double!’ he bellowed. Corporal Todd with three privates were at his side in seconds, muskets levelled as the Frenchmen lost their confidence and hesitated. The volley fire crashed out sending smoke rolling back into the marines’ faces, bringing flakes of freezing, stinking air into their nostrils. As his vision returned Jack saw one Frenchman standing, white faced, alone and terrified. ‘Forfeit your grog ration, Todd, unless you drop him now,’ Jack shouted. The man turned and ran seeking the safety of the building he had just left. The Frenchie reached the door as two muskets beside him fired again, their balls striking the man in the back and left leg, transforming him from a running coward to a dead hero.

  The entire time taken was less than two minutes, he felt sure, as the corporal’s remaining men ran to his side.

  ‘All guns spiked, as ordered, sir’ the corporal panted. ‘They will have their work cut out to fix `em buggers now,’ he said, his chest heaving. ‘The bags all fitted with short-lengths of slow fuse, sir. Should `ave a couple of minutes to get away, Mister Vizzard, no more.’