‘Mister Vizzard, sir,’ said a corporal of the 29th, ‘Mister Cracraft has been wounded and Mister Bevan has taken command, sir. He wants a word, sir.’
The fire from Vengeur was light and sporadic, with now only occasional musket shots cracking across the deck. Jack ran the length of Brunswick’s larboard side seeing the wounded men waiting to be taken below, the shattered timbers of a once proud ship of war, the streaks of blood running into the scuppers, the tears of a severely wounded vessel. He ran up the companionway to the quarterdeck where his new friend, Rowland Bevan, was standing, daring the French.
‘Vizzard, you bloody fool. If I thought we could have taken the Venguer I would have ordered it, no I would have led a boarding party myself.’ His anger was patently contrived and unsustainable, his face breaking into a smile. ‘But damn me, it was a glorious sight. I even thought you might make it for a moment.’
‘Bevan, if I thought you could have taken the Venguer I would have let you take my place. Boarding is for marines, not sailor boys.’ He chuckled aloud, clapping his hand on Bevan’s shoulder. ‘It was worth the try but damn my eyes, the Frogs over there have some spirit. I lost some good men.’ His face darkened at the thought. He never could accept the loss of good men.
‘They cannot sustain this pounding, surely. We’ve been pouring iron into her for an age but her captain shows no sign of surrendering. Can you see the bugger, Jack? He looks a calm one.’
The smoke parted and allowed Jack a glimpse of the officer in question. Who was he? Why had he not struck? His ship was fast becoming a wreck. The hull was peppered with holes and studded with shot that had not penetrated; masts were severely mauled, her sails mere shreds of dirty canvas. Her larboard side was streaming crimson and the sounds of the dying carried above the din of Brunswick’s guns.
‘Whoever he is, Rowland, he has courage and is to be respected for his determination. Why will he not strike? Call on him, Rowland. We have surely spilled enough blood and his ship cannot survive.’
Bevan picked up a battered speaking trumpet and hailed the French officer, whose shadowy form could just be discerned through the swirling smoke. The man was striding his rolling deck and shouting at his crew. Bellowing across the divide, Bevan saw the Frenchman turn and look directly at him.
‘Monsieur Le Capitaine, au nom du Roi George, je vous exhorte a renoncer. De rechange vos homes courageux.’
The Frenchman might have smiled; Bevan could not be sure. What he did see was the two-finger salute Henry V’s archers gave to the French at Agincourt. The man’s intention was clear. There would be no surrender.
A ripping screeching of timber and the twang of tangled lines snapping from the weight of hundreds of tons of force drew Bevan’s attention to the bows once more. The two ships, bound together for over three hours in a dual for survival, now slowly parted. As they drifted apart, Jack noted the approach of another ship. ‘Rowland, there is another of the bastards approaching. We will be hard pressed to fight two of them!’
Bevan raised his glass and focused on the new arrival creeping as a ghostly apparition through the smoke. His anxious face broke into a grin. ‘You may relax, Jack. That is no enemy but our captain’s brother; that’s Ramillies, Jack. Another of our 74s, Henry Harvey commands her.’
A slow tearing noise from the bows diverted Bevan from his observation of Ramillies. ‘What the devil? We’re losing her, Jack.’
‘Quickly now, Rowland. Her stern. She will be exposed and we can rake her.’
‘Damn me, Jack. I’m failing in my duty – Mister Kemble,’ he bellowed at the Third Lieutenant directing fire on the main deck, ‘get the larboard quarter guns busy. We can rake her as she tries to slip away.’
‘Right away, sir,’ said the young officer, calling away a surviving gun captain from an exhausted crew.
Vizzard and Bevan watched as the Vengeur pulled away with the sounds of lines parting and grinding timbers, smoke drifting apart to allow the observers witness a French officer attacking his own men.
Within moments, more fire exploded from Brunswick’s larboard quarter with a thunderous roar, shot whipping across the growing void between the two exhausted protagonists.
‘Hah, look Jack; we’ve struck her rudder pintle. She’ll not steer. By God, I believe she is sinking. Yes, she’s settling low in the water. My goodness, Ramillies is going to finish her. We must keep before the wind else we lose our masts; look how the foremast shivers.’
A murderous broadside poured in a rolling thunder of iron, tearing the innards of the French ship to shreds. Men died or were maimed by the score. Venguer settled lower, the surging ocean willing her give up the fight.
‘Rowland, look to windward,’ he shouted. ‘Do you see the French van? I think we are cut off and at risk of being taken.’
Lieutenant Bevan seized the situation and bellowed an order to the helm, ‘Bear away. I believe we can do no more, Jack. We are too badly wounded and this battle is over.’ As he spoke a defiant shot tore a section of the mizzen and sent it spinning into Bevan’s legs. He collapsed with a scream of pain, the deck beneath his crumpled body stained red.
A disciplined broadside from Ramillies shattered the enemy’s stern, sweeping the interior with death and opening the ship to the consuming ocean.
‘We have her, Rowland. She’s finished for sure,’ croaked Jack, his throat dry and tongue thick in his mouth. ‘Look there, he’s raised the Union flag over her Republican colours. She’s finally surrendered, Rowland. She’s your prize.’ He watched as the once proud ship rolled slowly on to her beam ends, men scrambling to hold on, many of them sliding into the icy water.
‘I’ll lower a boat and try to save some of the wretches,’ Bevan muttered, voicing a sailor’s sympathy for other men of the sea. Then he realised he had no boats left, they had all been turned to matchwood. ‘God help the poor devils,’ he said, as Brunswick drifted slowly north and away from the ship’s graveyard, and the graveyard of so many men.
‘God help you, Rowland!’ he said, kneeling by his friend. ‘You’re wounded again.’ Vizzard shouted at a dazed sailor, ‘Go and fetch the surgeon or one of his mates for Mister Bevan. He can’t leave the deck.’ He sat on a coil of rope and reached for his water canteen, swigging the warm water, as he surveyed the scenes of devastation about him. The blood-stained deck timbers, pockmarked with musket balls, the smouldering shreds of canvas and tarred rope, body parts still visible; there a boot with a stump of bone protruding, a thumb and finger next to an overturned 9-pounder.
‘Was it worth it, Rowland? Was it worth the loss of so many men? I have yet to take a roll of my killed and wounded, but Brunswick has lost many.’
‘How are such things measured, Jack? In truth I do not know. We have yet to find the convoy but we have surely defeated the French battle fleet and that must be worthwhile, do you not think?’
‘It remains to be seen, Rowland. I would we had found the convoy first and destroyed it. It is the Prime Minister’s wish to see it taken, so much I know. But a victorious sea battle will delight the country.’
‘For now we must be content with our achievement, Jack,’ Bevan answered, ‘we have done well. Now I must see to Brunswick’s return to England.’ Lieutenant Bevan summoned the carpenter seeking a report and mentally prepared a series of orders to ensure the ship’s return to Portsmouth.
‘If nothing else, Jack, we will be the glorious first with the news.’
Epilogue
Jack Vizzard sat in his father’s armchair the summer evening spilling warmth and dappled sunshine into Sir Henry’s study. He read again the order from the First Secretary; ‘On conclusion of your leave of absence you will report to the Port Admiral at Portsmouth and acquaint him with your orders as detailed above, and, at the earliest opportunity will take transport with the men under your command to place yourself under the orders of Vice Admiral Lord Jervis, Commander in Chief of the Mediterranean Fleet…
He looked up at the portrait of his fath
er. Sir Henry had not survived the winter of 1794 and had been buried in the frozen earth of Woodchester, the village he had loved and served all his life. In accordance with his last will, drafted in his own hand and witnessed by his two servants, Madeline and Edmund Neave, he was buried in the same plot as his beloved Caroline. Vizzard sighed and rose from the leather, staring out at the hills above the house. Lampern was now his, but at times it felt empty until his wife and children returned and laughter filled the old house. He missed his father; missed his humour, missed his wisdom and his counsel.
William Pitt had been fulsome in his praise. Vizzard had even been presented to King George and Queen Charlotte on the occasion of their Majesties visit to Portsmouth following the return of Howe’s glorious fleet. His sister, also Charlotte, had been green with envy when informed of the news. Mary had simply glowed with pride. Honours and awards had been generous and controversial. Several of the senior officers had received hereditary honours, others knighted and all First Lieutenants promoted to Commander, including his friend Rowland Bevan, who was now impatiently waiting for his first command. Some officers, omitted from Lord Howe’s despatches, were furious and let it be widely known. Funds had been raised for a monument to be installed in Westminster Abbey, to honour the memory of Captain Harvey, who died of his wounds shortly after Brunswick returned to Portsmouth, and the courage he displayed on that bloody day more than a year past now. Jack had declined a captaincy, much to the irritation of Colonel Souter, not wishing to lose the camaraderie of his Vandals, and had insisted on remaining in his rank.
‘There you are, Jack,’ said Mary, entering the study and intruding on his thoughts. ‘Our Freddie is here to say good-night to his papa.’ The little boy ran unsteadily until Jack swept him up and held him tight.
‘My darling boy,’ Jack whispered into his ear. ‘I fear I will have to leave you and will not see you again for a long, long time.’
‘Oh,’ said Mary, her face crestfallen. ‘You have new orders?
‘The Mediterranean fleet, my dear. Lord Jervis commands and where Jervis leads there will surely be action!’
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The Glorious First of June was a protracted and fragmented action. It is widely regarded by historians as one of the bloodiest of the Revolutionary War with France. It was the first major fleet action of that period and tested the Royal Navy, which had not seen a major action since the conclusion of the American War of Independence.
The British fleet was significantly under-manned but not completely lacking in training or commitment. The French fleet too, was undermanned and in the main, motivated partly by Revolutionary fervour; and by the intervention of such persons as the deputy of the National Convention, Jon-Bon Saint Andrè, who must have been a major irritation to the French admiral. Study of the logs and journals is revealing; some myths are severely dented, such as that of French ships always firing into the rigging and sails of British ships. Villaret Joyeuse, commanding the French fleet, demonstrated, for me certainly, sound tactical and strategic management of his force.
The French lower deck men had very recently mutinied and paid the price. Hundreds of officers and men were executed, incarcerated in prison or banished from the Republic. Junior officers were promoted to positions of seniority, merchant captains and even enthusiastic civilians were given command of warships. Villaret Joyeuse managed to avoid battle when he had to, almost certainly controlled the battlefield as well as Earl Howe, but most importantly, from the French perspective, ensured the safe arrival of the enormous grain convoy into Brest.
Earl Howe was undoubtedly a fine, outstanding officer and deserving of the praise that came his way. He was an inspiring, innovative leader and an example to many officers who came after him, including a young rising star of the Royal Navy, one Horatio Nelson. Howe declined any further honours from King George, which may be a measure of the man.
Readers who wish to know more can do no better than to read the excellent work of Dr Sam Willis, ‘The Glorious First of June,’ who is to my mind the leading contemporary historian of the Great Age of Sail. He follows in the footsteps of Professor N A M Rodger, surely the leading maritime historian of the present time.
This tale is the second I have written to feature Lt. Jack Vizzard of the Corps off Marines. A third is in outline and in preparation. If you have enjoyed this, do please consider posting a review on your favoured book site; Amazon, Goodreads et al. A favourable review greatly assists writers. If you have not enjoyed it then you will probably have not reached this page and I would be obliged for silence from you!
My thanks must go to my wonderful wife, Tracy, for allowing me to the time to indulge my ‘hobby’, to the friends who unwittingly assist and support me, be they known personally or through the medium of the interwebby. A great debt of gratitude is owed to (‘Sir’) Keith Penny, my editor-in-chief and instructor in matters of swordsmanship. His help has been invaluable.
I am also indebted to Oliver Hurst, illustrator and artist, for permission to use his work on the cover of this title. I stumbled upon his painting very late in my research and knew instantly that it was the one to adorn this book. Do please visit his gallery at: http://oliverhurst.com
Finally, but not least, a special thank you to a special young lady, Ashleigh Yates, a talented graphic designer who designed the cover.
If you enjoyed this story, please consider posting a brief review; they do help.
MHM
THE GLORIOUS FIRST: The first fleet action of the French Revolutionary War (The Jack Vizzard Chronicles Book 2) Page 22
