If there is a situation which would allow such an action, our country’s fortunes might be enhanced by efforts from within France if you can find a way to rescue a certain gentleman who was imprisoned at Brest, but has now escaped and is hiding within France, and take him out of that country. His escape to the coast at L’Orient is planned for the date of 1st July, 1795.”
He did not read the name of the sender.
“Admiral Hood has put this mission on us, and it is not my intention to fail. Lord Hood insists, however, that we remain with the fleet until the last possible moment, because he expects to need us if Villaret comes out. Lieutenant Marston has instructions for some of you, and the rest of you are to help in any way possible. Nobody is to speak of this mission to anyone who is not involved, at his greatest peril. Is this all understood?”
A chorus of “Aye, aye, Sirs,” filled the room, and the great man turned and left.
“So, here it is, gentlemen, said Marston. I need the following among you to join me in the captain’s public cabin: Lieutenant Goss, Midshipman Burton, and Mr. Blunte. That’s all for now. You may go.” Thence followed a great shuffling as First Lt. Marston left the room, followed by the three he had named, and then the others. A rising tide of speculative murmuring could be heard by Neville, as the last of Marston’s three left and closed the screen behind him.
In the captain’s forward cabin, Marston began, “We are only in this cabin for privacy. You know how rumor spreads; even the decks have ears,” he said. “This does not look to me to be a very difficult mission, nor a very dangerous one. You are only included, Mr. Burton, because it was suggested that you would be. I am not sure I would have chosen you myself.”
“Yes, Sir. I’ll do my best, Sir.”
“Your career depends on it – and possibly your life – if you don’t do it right.
“Lieutenant Goss, you will be the commander of the cutter, which you will take inshore to pick up a man who will offer some identification. We are told that there will be no question – that we will know it when we see it. Choose eight men who row well.
“Mr. Blunte, we do not need you personally involved, but choose one of your mates to organize sailing in and out, if you please, and be sure they are familiar with the coast around L’Orient. If you do not know it, it is not far south of Brest so, although Admiral Villaret’s ships of the line remain in harbor, it does not mean there are no smaller French warships about.
“I will leave you here to discuss your plans where you have privacy. There is the chart you’ll need. Please leave this cabin by four bells. Update me tomorrow, Lieutenant Goss. We have almost a month to prepare, and for our mysterious visitor to find his way south to L’Orient.”
“It’s the cutter we need, for sure,” said Lt. Goss to Neville and Blunte when the captain had left. “Not dangerous, he says. That’ll be because he’s not the one going. I’m sure there will be plenty of French eyes on us.”
“Yes. Well, you’ve time to plan. Let’s get to it,” responded Blunte, picking up the chart.
14 - “Battle of Groix”
Someone shook his hammock at seven bells in the middle watch. It was no surprise to have all hands called again, but there was no noise of the bo’sun’s mates rousting his watch. Neville heard no calls of ‘out and down’. There was no whistling. It was black dark, except for the tiny lantern his messenger carried. His mind was slow to grasp the unusual situation.
“Burton,” he heard in something between a whisper and a snarl. “On deck. Lay aft.” He snapped awake. That meant the captain or the first lieutenant, or at least the officer of the watch needed him for something. Not just anyone, but him. He rolled out, struggled a minute with his shoes, and almost started off without his coat.
He found the captain, first lieutenant, and the officer of the watch – Summers – all on the quarterdeck straining to see something forward. He was surprised at the light of day beginning so early. Not that it was light; just something of a glow was beginning in the east.
“Ah, Mr. Burton, there you are,” said Lt. Marston with unusual exuberance. “We think there is a signal on Orion, but it has not been repeated by Valiant ahead of us. Maybe they just haven’t seen it yet. Take your young eyes up top with the signals glass, if you please, and give us a shout.”
It took only a minute to climb the familiar rigging to the lookout’s position.
“Mr. Clough, a cheerful good morning to you. How’d you see anything at all this time o’ night?”
“G’morning, Sir. Night? It’s almost sunup. Orion’s right there beyond, see? Dunno why Orion hasn’t used a light, or why Valiant ain’t seen it, but it’s a signal for sure.”
Leaning back against a topmast shroud, he steadied the glass forward. It took a minute to find Orion in the dark, but soon she showed clear. A signal, yes. He stared until he was sure.
“Quarterdeck! Orion signals ‘Enemy’.” he shouted down once he was sure. He looked back into his glass.
“Where away?” answered the captain.
“Tell ‘em they don’t say, Clough, and Valiant has finally repeated.” He continued looking.
“Young Mr. Abran’s hoisted our answer, Sir.”
“Thank you, Mr. Clough. I see Orion answering something,” he said. A moment later, he screamed down himself: “Sou’east. Our number. Chase!”
By the time he reached the deck, the pandemonium had already begun. The shrill whistles were tweeting, and the mates were yelling “All hands! All hands make sail!”
“Everything aloft she’ll bear, Mr. Burton. Stuns’l’s.”
“Aye, Sir.”
The normal routine went into effect as any other Monday, once the sails were set. Even with studdingsails, they wouldn’t catch the French quickly. The French would have all their canvas abroad, as well. Decks were priddied and the men piped to breakfast. The chatter was louder than usual, and excited and quick. Rumors were going ‘round faster than the ship could sail.
“What do we know, Lieutenant Marston?” asked Neville when he returned to the quarterdeck after his breakfast.
“Just crack on,” he answered. “We can see French sails – probably royals. If it is Admiral Villaret, he is showing no intention to fight. Queen Charlotte is there,” he offered, pointing forward to a ship visible to the courses from the deck, just off the windward bow. “Flag has signaled for a general chase, after sending seven of us out first. You can see Irresistible forereaching Queen Charlotte out in front there. We sail with Orion, Colossus, Valiant, and Russell.” Turning to point, he added, “You can see Royal George and two others there east, maybe eight miles. Our wind is not remarkable, but it gives us six knots.”
Lt. Marston harried the officers all day with sail changes, large and small, trying whatever he could to get another knot of speed. All sail was up, and the constant wind did not give cause for continual reefing and loosing. The day passed: breakfast, dinner, watch change, and supper, running the great guns out and in, and Lt. Marston making an inspection circuit to be sure all was ready. Always, there was a group on the foredeck, watching the French ships coming closer and closer.
By the time seven bells chimed in the last dog watch, both Captain Seymour and Lt. Marston were on the foredeck.
“What do you think, Sir; shall we give it a go with a bow chaser?”
“There is certainly no chance from this distance but, in any event, we must wait for the order from the Admiral.”
As if in answer, a signal broke out from the Royal George.
“Quarterdeck, there! Signal, Sir,” reported Clough, back in the top.
“Harass the enemy rear, Sir,” said Neville.
“There you go, then,” said the captain. “All we have to do is catch them.”
“By the time we do that, it will certainly be after sunset,” responded the first lieutenant. “Our gun crews have improved remarkably, but I doubt we can have much effect in the dark.”
“Get us in position best you can, then, and watc
h for any French tricks,” said the captain.
The breeze was dying, creating an uncomfortable rolling on six-foot waves left over from the day’s wind. Night fell, and the stars came out. The ship creaked and groaned less as the waves began to decrease in size. Canvas flapped limply, and the yards banged against the masts with each fitful puff of air, until five bells in the evening watch when all stopped. Sheets and braces hung limp, and the ships sat becalmed, but the sails remained unfurled in hope of wind. Yards still banged, blocks clattered, and lines slapped as the ship rolled in the swell, frustrating them further with each taunting noise.
“I would be pleased of the evening if we weren’t trying to catch the Frogs,” Lt. Goss commented to Neville at their spot by the foredeck rail. “It’s quite pretty, really, with the stars out and all the canvas spread wide above.”
“Aye, Sir, it is,” responded Neville. “It makes me think of an English summer evening.”
The watch on duty had an easy time of it until six bells chimed in the graveyard watch. Feeling a slight breeze, Lt. Marston began to prowl, even though there was not yet much that could be done above. Rigging noises decreased, and the canvas began to lift itself off the lower yards. On the poopdeck, a gurgle could be heard from aft. The ship’s wake in the moonlight grew from only a few feet to a few yards.
“Two knots on the log, Sir,” reported Mr. Hodge to Lt. Dinning.
“That’s an improvement,” he said. “We might actually see the Frogs when the light’s up.”
“I estimate they would be a league ahead of Queen Charlotte and Irresistible,” said Simms at daybreak. “The rest of us are quite scattered, but them two can probably hail each other.”
The sound of holystones on the deck was interrupted first by the striking of four bells, and almost immediately by the sound of one cannon; then another.
“There, Captain,” shouted Lt. Dinning, pointing to the closest French ship. Smoke could be seen drifting downwind, but nothing could be determined of the shot at this distance.
The holystoning stopped, and men lined the rail.
“What is the meaning of this, Lieutenant Summers? Get those men back at their duties,” shouted Lt. Marston. “Couldn’t hold a dog on his own leash, I suspect,” he mumbled.
Another two cannons fired, this time from the Irresistible, and the group on the foredeck raised a cheer.
“Clear for Action, Lieutenant Marston, and beat to quarters,” said Captain Seymour.
HMS Sans Pareil came alive with the noise of whistles, shouting, and the rattling of snare drums. Hundreds of calloused feet slapped the deck as they headed for the ratlines, and the marines’ boots tramped their way to their afterguard stations. Sharpshooter joined the seamen and midshipmen swarming aloft.
“Raise ports and run out,” commanded Lt. Marston only moments later. Neville was off watch and, therefore, at the guns. The decks rumbled with their movement. Boys were sanding the decks, and the powder monkeys were running up with more charges. The gun crews stood beneath the splinter nettings, stripped to the waist with kerchiefs about their heads, hair tied back and stuff in their ears, looking out through the larboard ports as best they could for the enemy. The French seventy-four Formidable was visible forward, and they were now closing fast. Queen Charlotte was beyond Formidable and almost abeam. They had been shooting sporadic chasers at each other as they drew closer together. Irresistible had fallen farther off to larboard, chasing the French Alexandre, and cannon and musket fire was no longer sporadic, but continuous.
Beyond the French Formidable on their larboard, Queen Charlotte suddenly fired a broadside. She disappeared in the smoke of her own guns. Formidable shook visibly and returned fire, slowing enough that Sans Pareil’s guns would soon bear.
“Ready, men,” yelled Neville, repeating the warning from Dinning.
“Fire! Fire!” Summers was screaming forward. In response, the four forward guns leaped back hard against their lashings with a deafening roar, belching orange fire. The after guns of the forward division sat quiet, while Duckett yelled, “Not yet, men, not yet.”
“’Vast fire. Hold!” Marston was heard. “Who gave that order?”
“Sorry, Sir, I did,” announced both Summers and Duckett.
“The order to fire,” snapped Marston.
“Me, Sir,” said Summers sheepishly.
“Go below, Sir. You are relieved,” he yelled. “Fine job, Midshipman Duckett; carry on.
“Prepare for larboard broadside. Helm, now!”
Sans Pareil came slowly to starboard, bringing all her larboard guns to bear on Formidable’s starboard quarter.
“Fire!” commanded Marston; the deck shivered as langridge flew from the cannons.
The helm was returned to center, and the Sans Pareil swiftly closed the distance between the two ships. Formidable was now only half her length ahead.
Queen Charlotte fired another broadside into the forward half of Formidable as she passed onward to chase Tigre. Formidable’s forecourse split top to bottom, her topsail flew loose in rags, and the foretopmast lurched to leeward. Great chunks of the foredeck rail were missing.
“Fire, foredeck,” shouted Goss.
“Fire forward divisions!” screamed Duckett and Dinning.
The two larboard thirty-six-pounders on the forecastle leaped just before the thunder from the upper and lower gun decks and a response from Formidable. Men screamed forward, and the man standing next to Neville lurched backwards across the deck, half his face shot away by a musket ball. Langridge from the upper deck twenty-four-pounders cut Formidable’s mizzen rigging, releasing the topmast to tilt slightly forward with the continued pressure of wind. Ball shot from the lower deck’s immense thirty-two pounders punched visible holes in the French hull.
Sans Pareil’s number five larboard gun crew flew to pieces, and their cannon rolled on its side. One of the crew screeched out, stumbling backward with a foot-long splinter through his leg. Balls from its shot garland were rolling about the deck, threatening to injure any seaman it their path. With the enemy’s fore and mizzen sails out of commission, Sans Pareil was forereaching more quickly than before.
“Look, Mr. Burton, Formidable’s afire on the poop, and maybe in the cabins below,” yelled Goss. “We’re going to come together and board her. Take everyone you can from your division to the larboard catwalk.”
With some difficulty due to the noise, Neville gathered his men, sending them past the marines who were handing out pikes, muskets, and cutlasses at the hatches. “Here you go, lads; take the weapon of your choosing,” joked an armorer’s mate. “Go get ‘em.”
Neville was two steps up the ladder when the ships came together. The thump of their meeting sent him sprawling down onto the next man in line, but they were both up in an instant and climbing again. During the noise of cannon fire, the wailing of chain shot, canister and langridge, the flying of musket balls, splinters, and even body parts, the two ships collided and were grappled together. As Neville reached the forward end of the gangway, Formidable’s mizzen fell, going over the leeward side away from Sans Pareil and adding falling rigging and sails to the danger. Men from both sides were about to throw themselves at each other with cutlasses, pistols, axes, and pikes. This was madness!
“At ‘em lads,” screamed Lt. Goss just ahead of him, jumping up on the ship’s rail and waving his sword. Thirty to forty men followed him across the gap between the two vessels. Neville felt as if he were not actually moving; the men around him propelled him forward toward the gap. His legs were moving, mostly for the purpose of keeping himself vertical. Despite the din, he perceived, rather than experienced, that it must have appeared from afar that he was helping to lead the assault. His short sword strapped to his arm and held aloft, his effort was directed more to making sure he didn’t fall between the ships as he was shoved forward than it was to attack the enemy. A very vivid picture of his father falling through that gap roared through his mind, along with the sounds of continuing
cannon fire and shouting.
He found himself on the deck of the Formidable. Near him – very near, somewhere – a swivel gun fired. He felt a stabbing on the right side of his head, almost as if with a dirk, as the sound of the gun’s blast hit his right ear. The pain was instant, but began to subside immediately. The deck was red with blood and slippery. The surging crowd was thinner, and strangely quiet to his right. Had they been swept away? Not much sound was coming through his right ear. He glanced there quickly, and saw the melee continuing, but there were fewer Pareils around him. There would be room to swing his sword now. A blue French uniform staggered backwards in front of him. Dazed, but apparently only lightly wounded, the man raised his sword toward Neville and, in one motion, slipped on a puddle of blood and fell back against the hull of one of the Formidable’s boats, his sword now dangling from its lanyard. Neville swung his hanger up, placing the point of it at his opponent’s throat.
“Oh, My Dear God,” was one of the thousand thoughts that flew through Neville’s mind at once. I took one life before, but I only stabbed into the dark in the hold of Angelique. This is a brutal … and even that thought was cut short by a body that appeared out of nowhere, swinging like a pendulum on a main yard brace cut down from aloft. The body slammed Neville’s wrist forward, hammering the sword straight through his fallen opponent’s neck and into the boat planking. Blood spurted onto Neville’s face, and the man produced an awful, extended, wet gurgling noise; he would have slumped to the deck if not held up by Neville’s blade pinning him to the hull of the captain’s gig behind him. The swinging sailor’s body landed in a heap beside the two with his head turned backwards. Neville hadn’t done it – but he had; the evidence was still in front of him.
With his blade stuck in the boat and strapped to his wrist, he was a sitting duck if he couldn’t get loose. With a great yank, he freed the blade from the boat and the Frenchman’s throat, slipped on that same bloody deck, and went to his knees. More good luck. An axe blade sliced the air above his head, and the enemy presented a broad belly not two feet from Neville’s nose.
The Glorious First Of June (Neville Burton: Worlds Apart Book 1) Page 24
