A large gathering of family and friends had collected at the ancient church where the body of Jack’s oldest and closest friend had been planted in the cold earth, the bluebells around the graveyard bringing a splash of welcome colour to what had been one of the darkest of days. Members of the South Gloucestershire Yeomanry provided a guard of honour. Jack and Mary and the children were dressed in black, which suited Jack’s mood. The anger burned within him like a gunner’s slow match.
‘Grant this mercy, O Lord, we beseech Thee, to Thy servant departed, that he may not receive in punishment the requital of his deeds who in desire did keep Thy will, and as the true faith here united him to the company of the faithful, so may Thy mercy unite him above to the choirs of angels. Through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.’
The priest intoned the final ritual and Jack and Mary led Lady Louise, Giles’ widow, to the carriage, where her tears flowed after being held at bay throughout the service. Her father, Lord Ducie, took her in his arms and comforted his daughter, not having words to do so.
Jack and Mary’s daughter, Annie, stood holding her mother’s hand, as Mary and the wet-nurse examined the latest addition to the Vizzard family, ‘Baba Freddie’, as he had come to be called by Annie, and who, oblivious to the solemnity of the occasion, was gurgling with pleasure.
Bill Brice, unashamed, wept like a baby.
CHAPTER 15
Captain John Harvey, in command of Brunswick, was a prime seaman. He thought so. His peers amongst the captains on the Admiralty list thought so. His men thought so. After nigh on forty years at sea he knew as much of war as his sponsor, Richard Earl Howe, the admiral in command of the impressive fleet in which he now served. Harvey had fought in the Seven Years War, the American War, and had been Robert Duff’s flag captain during the Great Siege of Gibraltar.
Highly regarded by Earl Howe, Harvey held his present command at Howe’s particular request. He loved the ship as much as he loved his wife, Judith. She often teased that his greatest love was his ship.
But my, she is a beauty, he thought as he paced his pitching quarterdeck. He momentarily thought of his wife as he looked at the standing rigging, the full sails and the men about the tasks, wondering if he would be back in Kent in time for his birthday next month. A strong, well-built man of fifty-three years, he had been in the Navy since turning thirteen years of age. Bushy, dark eyebrows set in a rounded face surmounted kindly grey/green eyes and his thick grey hair swept back revealing a high, broad forehead, stained by exposure to salt and sunlight. Having lived well he had developed a double chin beneath his full mouth.
‘Mister Bevan, I’ll thank thee to keep the fore-course under control; I noted a shiver this instant.’ He spoke quietly and not unkindly to his second lieutenant. A good man, he thought, but it would do no harm for him to think his captain was checking on his work. The lieutenant acknowledged the comment with a nod and a hand to his temple, with a barely audible, ‘sir.’
Seventy-four guns and a crew, albeit short-handed, but a crew trained to use them. Yes, she was a smart ship. He took a few paces around the deck enjoying the stiff breeze while keeping an eye on the flagship, Queen Charlotte, in the centre of the line, waiting for Howe’s signal flags to break out into the breeze.
‘There it is’, he said aloud, trying to decipher the code. He had spent several hours studying his admiral’s ‘Signal Book for Ships of War’; a distillation of Kempenfelt’s earlier studies, which reduced the number of signal flags to a mere ten, but providing the fleet under Howe’s command with 10,000 pre-determined orders and instructions.
Try as he might, he could not discern the command. ‘Mister Bevan, your assistance please, if you would be so kind. Your eyes are younger than mine. What does Lord Howe say?’
‘If I read it right, sir’, he replied, a large telescope to his right eye, ‘His Lordship makes our number and wishes us to make more sail. I believe he feels we are losing station, sir.’
‘I will be damned. Very well Mister Bevan. Please oblige his Lordship, and I, by issuing the necessary orders.’ He scowled at a midshipman, causing the boy to jump.
Harvey continued his pacing across the canting deck as the second lieutenant shouted a rapid sequence of orders to the watch on deck, bringing Brunswick swiftly back on course. ‘I have no desire to see such a signal directed at my ship again,’ he growled at the men at the helm. He was angrier for his own momentary inattention.
The wind drew from the southwest, obliging the fleet to alter course only five minutes later.
Harvey reflected on the days since the Channel Fleet had left Spithead on 2 May, escorting a convoy out of the Channel under the lee of Montagu’s squadron, before heading for the cruising station off Brest. He was pleased and proud of his ship. He commanded it with a firm grip on the crew, and even more firm hold on the officers.
Harvey knew every inch of her and loved her for the powerful warhorse she was. A third rate of seventy-four guns, Brunswick had been built at Deptford in ’90. Her main gun-deck mounted 28 thirty-two pounders with a similar number of eighteen pounders on the upper gun-deck. Lighter armament was distributed about the forecastle and quarterdeck.
But he was short of men. Seamen he had, although few enough good top-men, and even fewer able seamen, but his gunnery was good too. One hundred short all told, he’d reckoned from his muster book. And he lacked marines. Yes, he had some of the 29th Regiment, but they knew little of the business of a ship of the line. He corrected himself; they knew nothing whatever of the business of a ship of the line. It appeared to Captain Harvey that they barely understood their own business of soldiering. They could not serve his guns, nor could they work the running rigging, other than lend some weight when required. They were there to form boarding parties and to be his marksmen in battle.
The marine officer Pitt had introduced had brought a platoon of tough and rough-looking men, who might prove useful. He thought the lieutenant to be zealous. He had exercised his men daily and was doing so again now. He watched Vizzard drilling them about the foremast. Loading, priming, presenting. Each day making them work and move faster, with more cohesion. But damn the man, he was unorthodox. None of his men wore redcoats, but dirty, grey jackets, with a colourful variety of headgear. Vizzard’s response to Harvey’s rebuke to the man on the subject of uniform had been bordering on the insubordinate. ‘Yes, sir’ he had said. ‘You prefer toy soldiers who look the part but cannot fight, to my fighters who do not look the part but who can. Understood, sir’, had been the marine’s response, with no agreement at all.
But now, watching the manner of their fighting, watching their energy and their speed of action, he wanted more of them. They were different and the sailors silently acknowledged them, wary and watchful of these barbarian-like men, who shouted and screamed in war-like fashion and raced and fought each other around the deck.
‘Mister Vizzard is a most curious officer, do you not think, Bevan?’
Taken aback, the second lieutenant could only agree. He watched Vizzard practicing loading with a sea service musket, each time performing faster and more smoothly.
‘He is certainly zealous, sir. His methods are not of the accustomed variety but one has to admit to their effectiveness. If I may say, sir, should we fall in with the French I feel a certain sense of reassurance. He has them throwing round shot at each other and one of them, that young corporal, is a juggler such as one might see at the Royal Circus in Lambeth. They are all of them first-class shots, sir. Have you seen that rough sergeant of his? He shot a gull yesterday, the range must have been over fifty yards and he took its head off, clean as you like. In flight too; it was quite remarkable.’
‘I heard tell of it, Bevan. Vizzard is also said to be an excellent shot with a musket, though I have yet to see evidence of it,’ said Harvey. ‘He is well placed with the government, d’you know. Introduced to me personally by no less a personage than Billy Pitt himself. Seems the man has been conducting clandestine… activities in Fran
ce. Came close to losing his head, I hear. Be kind of you to have him join us for supper this evening, unless Black Dick has other plans for the fleet, naturally.’
‘His Lordship is not entertaining on this cruise, sir. He is keen as mustard to get on station and intercept the French, sir. As are we all.’
* * * * *
‘Mister Bevan approaching, sir,’ Sergeant Packer grunted from the corner of his panting mouth. ‘I reckon I’ve earned my grog this evening, sir. You’ve pushed us all uphill and down dale most of the watch, an’ that’s no error.’
‘Quiet, Joe,’ he muttered from the side of his mouth. ‘Good day to you, Bevan. How goes the cruise?’ He addressed the lieutenant with a smile.
‘Very well, Vizzard. You have impressed my lord and master this afternoon and I am instructed to request your company at supper. You should feel honoured as the captain infrequently invites officers to dine.’
‘I shall be delighted, naturally. Why now I wonder?’ he said.
‘Oh some nonsense I expect. Seems to think you and your men will be of value when we come to have our scrap with the Frogs!’ Bevan said. ‘They do appear a fearsome lot, Vizzard, you must admit of it.’
‘They may appear a rough-house gang of thieves and villains and cut-throats, Bevan; indeed that is precisely what many of them are. Or they were. However, I would prefer to have them behind me when I meet the French than those pretty lads from the 29th of Foot. My lads enjoy a good fight and are bloody damned good at it.’ His white teeth grinned at the naval lieutenant.
‘Dinner should be an enjoyable occasion, Vizzard. The captain is in good cheer and anticipating the coming engagement, for it would be a disappointment to all should we miss the French.’ Bevan smiled back, feeling Vizzard’s enthusiasm, sharing in it.
‘If one must then, I shall endeavour to present a more or better groomed appearance for your lord and master. Uniform coat to please him, I suppose? He impresses as a skilled sailor. Is he a fighting man though?’
‘Oh, upon my word, Vizzard. You will not find a more vigorous and determined officer in the fleet’, replied Bevan. ‘Saving of course Black Dick. He cannot wait to catch `em and pound `em to pieces.’
* * * * *
‘Vizzard. Welcome lad. Take a seat.’ Captain Harvey pointed vaguely at the table, laid with plain linen cloth and common seamen’s fiddles, with pewter and wooden mugs, in place of the crystal he used when in port. Patched canvas covered the floor, with screens removed to create greater space. Jack noted the following ships in orderly line astern through the stern gallery, the sea a darkening oily grey, broken by the broadening wake as Brunswick sailed the admiral’s course, reassuring sounds of routine activity from the skylight above.
A number of officers were at the table, some of whom Jack had not yet become familiar with. Harvey bade them introduce themselves, clockwise. He instantly forgot most of them, but noted the token middie, James Lucas, and also the officer commanding the ship’s infantrymen, the 29th Regiment of foot, Captain Alexander Saunders. Rowland Bevan, the only ship’s lieutenant he had any contact with since coming aboard, sat directly opposite him.
‘Good evening to you, Vizzard’ said Captain Saunders of the 29th. ‘I’m delighted to have you and your men with us.’ The voice was cultured and polite, Saunders pleased to have another officer under his command. For his detachment of 76 private soldiers he had only a young ensign and two sergeants to assist.
‘I am pleased to be aboard, Saunders. Odd to see foot soldiers on a King’s ship, but I dare say we will have need of them afore long.’
Vizzard knew of the shortage of trained marines and the use of line regiments to supplement the shortage aboard the King’s ships. He thought them of little use but kept an open mind until they were tested in action against the enemy.
‘I will certainly have need of you and your men, Vizzard, if they can shoot as well under fire as I observed them this afternoon,’ said Saunders.
‘They are tested and true, Saunders’, said Jack. ‘I have trained them and fought with them. On French soil too!’
Captain Harvey’s head jerked up. ‘So, it’s true is it, Vizzard? You have been busy in France?’
‘Indeed, sir. We have been conducting certain, ah, activities to discomfort the French, sir’, said Jack with a smile.
‘A damned sight more than mere activities, Vizzard, as I understand your recent, er… new acquaintance put it to me when I was last in town.’ Harvey’s eyes quickly scanned the table as though inspecting the set of his sails. ‘Gentlemen, one of the reasons we found ourselves in this fleet is due, in some measure, to the efforts of this officer of marines. I learned from the highest and most reliable of informants of the French plans to purchase grain and other necessities from the Americas became known to His Majesty’s government by a combination of documents obtained during Mister Vizzard’s various excursions to France.’ He beamed at the curious faces to his front.
‘From his labour, enterprise and the duty he has performed, we know an extremely large convoy of merchantmen will soon be approaching. Yes, a force commanded by Admiral Vanstabel will escort the fleet. It will be joined by the Brest squadron under Villaret de Joyuese, about whom we know little. Before their revolution, I suspect he was a mere petty officer; their belief in equality, fraternity la-la, seems to ignore experience and seamanship.’ Harvey paused to drink from a large glass.
‘I offer a toast to Mister Vizzard, the latest addition to our happy band; and confusion to our enemies!’
A murmuring of assent rippled around the table. Eyes looked afresh at the young marine officer, his cheeks now tinged in crimson.
‘You must respond to the toast, Vizzard. Come now, let us hear you.’ The demand came from Lieutenant Bevan. He thumped the table, rattling the cutlery and glassware.
The ship rolled and Jack grabbed his glass as it slid across the mahogany table towards the young ensign of the 29th, whose name escaped him.
‘I thank you for the honour you do me, sir,’ with a nod to Captain Harvey, ‘which is ill-deserved, and to you gentlemen for your warm welcome.’ Then he drank deeply from the glass. ‘In truth the honour belongs to my sergeant, for it was he who found the papers. On a Frenchie who was rather reluctant to part with them, I understand!’
Laughter ran around the table as the captain’s servants brought a succession of covered tureens and dishes.
‘Salomungundy the people call it to start with gentlemen, followed with a beef stew with suet dumplings,’ Harvey said. `tis a favourite o’ mine. Take the spoon and use it generously, youngster,’ he spoke to the midshipman. ‘I still remember the hunger of the gun-room.’ He smiled kindly at the most junior of his guests, a boy of perhaps twelve or thirteen, he thought. ‘When is your birthday, Mister Lucas?’
‘Next week, sir’, the boy replied in a soft, anxious voice. ‘I shall turn fourteen, sir.’
‘Then God willing, lad, you shall see a battle of a scale not seen by many in this fleet. I trust you will do your duty and serve our King.’
‘Sir’, the boy said, ‘I will gladly die to serve my country, sir.’ his trembling voice in earnest.
‘I fervently pray such sacrifice will not be necessary, my boy. Do your best and obey the officers put above you, and I will be happy.’ Harvey smiled at the boy as if one of his own children, as in a sense he was.
‘Now Mister Bevan, the wine appears hove to at your station. Kindly bear down man, and pass it along, there’s a good fellow.’ Harvey’s right arm reached out to gather the bottle and then grinned at his favoured lieutenant. ‘I thank you, Mister Bevan.’
‘Sir, apropos your comments to our honoured middie, do you care to speculate on when we will meet the French?’ Bevan made the enquiry. ‘Do we know if they have left Brest?’
‘Ha, there’s the rub, Mister Bevan. I venture within the week, but who can say? We will take a look in at Brest Roads and see what we shall see. Rear Admiral Montagu is hunting for the convoy now and His
Lordship has detailed his ideas for attacking them when found, in several circumstances; that is to say he has an open mind as to how we deal with them. However, deal with them we shall, and most thoroughly, mark my word, Bevan.’ He spread his hands wide. ‘I am confident of a glorious victory against the French fleet. They are revolutionaries, so will fight with vigour, I have no doubt, but we are dealing with a foe much weakened by Robespierre, who has surely decapitated the best France has.’
Jack Vizzard cleared his throat, ‘Beg pardon, sir, but as I perceive the purpose of our cruise, we should chiefly consider the grain convoy the French admiral has been sent to protect and escort into safe harbour, should we not? It would be a great and glorious thing to defeat his fleet in battle, for certain, but our prime purpose is to capture or destroy the grain and beef the Americans are sending to save the revolutionaries. It must be the chief object, in my humble submission.’ Jack smiled at the captain.
‘Hah, a lobster-back with a mind to fleet tactics, hey?’ The captain chuckled, others joining him. ‘Well, Mister Vizzard, may I counsel you to leave such matters to Earl Howe and his captains. We do know our business here.’
Jack felt the bemusement of the officers rather than the argument he anticipated. Tension was absent from the room. ‘I intended no disrespect, sir, and Earl Howe is rightly regarded as our finest admiral. I merely wished to suggest that as a matter of national strategy our efforts would be better directed to intercepting and capturing the grain convoy, rather than engaging in a bloody and uncertain encounter with a sizable fleet of Robespierre’s warships.’ He paused to fork buttered potato and deliver it to his mouth, swallowing quickly, he continued. ‘I am aware the fleet is undermanned, sir, and a fight with the fanatical French might prove a costly affair, do you not think?
THE GLORIOUS FIRST: The first fleet action of the French Revolutionary War (The Jack Vizzard Chronicles Book 2) Page 18
