The Price of Glory

by Seth Hunter

  “Gabriel! Gilbert Gabriel there!”

  The presence loomed, never far from his side.

  “Sir?”

  Gabriel had been his father’s servant when Nathan was a boy. He had taught him to load and fire his first fowling piece and tanned his hide on more than one occasion for some mischief considerably less ambitious than highway robbery.

  “Would you have another coffee on the go, Gabriel? And I believe I will have breakfast now rather than later.”

  Nathan turned guiltily away, not wishing to consider the negotiations that were sure to be involved in fulfilling such an outrageous request. Back in the privacy of Balfour’s cabin, he seated himself at the tiny desk, rolled back his cuff, and took up his pen:

  Friday, July 3rd. Rain.

  He stared at this startling revelation for some considerable time without adding to it. He felt like a schoolboy compelled to write some dreary composition. Verse was more appropriate to his present mood.

  Rain, tippling from the morning sky

  And drumming upon the taut canvas

  Of my vexéd mind

  As dimly I hear the vixen’s love-tortured cry …

  Love-tortured. No. Something else, something less maudlin yet expressive of sexual anguish and grief … He set it aside for future consideration and returned to the more mundane matter of his journal. Their lordships, who might one day read it, were not, as a general rule, enamoured of verse, not in a captain’s journal. Nor, so far as he was aware, of sexual anguish.

  Light wind NNW.

  It was the duty of every officer in the service, above the rank of midshipman, to keep a record of their commission. Indeed, the lieutenants were obliged to satisfy their lordships, or at least their lordships’ underlings, that they had fulfilled their obligations in this regard, and have it attested by signature, before they were permitted to draw their pay. So the voyages of the Unicorn were documented severally beside the official version recorded in the ship’s log, which was kept by the ship’s master and tended to be less imaginative: though in truth imagination did not figure largely in any of them. Nor, as general rule, were they ever read. They were only read if something exceptional occurred, such as victory, or defeat, or mutiny. But then the journals were transformed from essays in banality to loaded weapons that could be used against one’s fellow officers. Or oneself.

  Naturally, when anything untoward did occur, there was a degree of collusion in their composition: a collective instinct to tell the same tale, based on the principle that they either stood—or hanged—together. Nathan did not encourage this propensity but nor was he averse to it, if it was to his own advantage. And there was the rub. He could not bring himself to examine his officers’ reports before they were submitted; nor influence them, as he knew other commanders did. He knew he might already be facing serious charges for his conduct in the Caribbean. He was accused of recklessness, of endangering his ship. And now there was this business in the mouth of Morbihan: the grounding of the Unicorn and the “arrest” of the Chevalier de Batz … cousin to the Comte de Puisaye, commander of the Royalist troops at Quiberon.

  Nathan put his hand to his head and massaged the ache about his temples. He had already written up a report of the incident and sent it by the Unicorn’s cutter to Commodore Warren—considerably sweetened, of course, by news of the taking of the two forts. But he wondered what his own officers would have to say about it in their individual reports.

  It was unlike him to be so anxious. He shook his head to dismiss the demons that lurked there and dipped the pen once more into the ink.

  Only to be saved by the clatter of feet down the ladder in the companionway and the rapping of a midshipman’s knuckle—it was odd how you always knew it was a midshipman—upon the panels of the door.

  Midshipman Lamb, to be precise, with Mr. Balfour’s respects and the news that the cutter was sighted, bearing down upon them under full sail from out of the Auray.

  “So what kept you?” Nathan demanded as he scrutinised the faces of the two officers in the privacy of his cabin. “It cannot be more than four hours to Auray with the tide.”

  “I beg your pardon, sir, but we were detained by the enemy.” Major Howard was as laconic as ever, if a mite less dapper. His uniform was soiled and rent and he did not look to have washed or shaved for several days. Whiteley looked dead on his feet.

  Nathan gestured for them to be seated and they sank wearily into the cushions of the bench under the stern window.

  “Bennett reported that Auray had fallen to the Chouans,” Nathan began.

  Howard nodded. “So it had, but we had not been there above an hour when we came under fire from a strong force of Republicans that had marched up from Vannes. We were under siege for two days.” He drew a hand over his unshaven jaw. “Finally, the Chouans decided to make a break to the west, towards Quiberon, and we fought our way out by the river.”

  “But …” Nathan struggled to make sense of this. “What of the invasion force? Has it not advanced inland?”

  The two officers exchanged glances.

  “We are informed not.”

  “Informed?”

  “By Charette—the Chouan commander at Auray.”

  “But what—” It came out as a croak, his mouth was so dry. He cleared his throat and started again. “But why have the Royalists not advanced inland? We were informed the enemy had very little force in the region.”

  Howard seemed unusually reticent. Nathan glanced at Whiteley. He wished he could have talked with him privately for there was some mystery here and Whiteley would have been less cautious about revealing it.

  “Tell me what you know,” he instructed Howard. “At least, what you have heard. I will make no report of it unless it is necessary. But it is important I know exactly what is happening so far as the land operations are concerned.”

  “Well,” Howard assembled his thoughts. You could almost hear them creaking. “This came from Charette and I am not sure he is to be trusted. He has … well, he is a man of strong opinions and his political views, that is … I believe he is not entirely in sympathy with the Royalist cause—at least as it is represented at Quiberon.”

  Nathan waited patiently.

  “However, he reports that there is dissent in the Royalist command. Some are for marching inland; others for remaining at Quiberon until there is more welcome news.”

  “News?” Nathan screwed up his face. “News of what?”

  “Of what is happening elsewhere. In Paris, in particular.”

  “In Paris? Paris is two hundred miles from here and unless I am misinformed it is ruled by the Republicans. What has Paris to do with the situation here in Brittany ?”

  “I am only reporting what we heard, sir.”

  “I am sorry. Go on.”

  “We were told that the invasion was timed to coincide with an uprising in Paris, and the overthrow of the Republican government by Royalists in the capital.”

  “I see.” Nathan wondered if he did. Was the invasion meant to draw troops from the capital? A mere diversion to the main thrust of the attack? But this was political work and it was too much to expect that the people fighting on the ground would be informed of it.

  “I take it nothing further has been heard of this ‘uprising’?’ “

  “No, sir. Charette—and those of his followers we spoke with—I had the impression they do not look to Paris for relief. Or much else in this world. For them, Paris is the source of all evil. A Hell on Earth, entirely occupied by demons.”

  A knock came upon the door and Gabriel entered with two of his lackeys bearing coffee and a large skillet of ham and eggs, pork sausage and hunks of fresh-baked bread. At Nathan’s invitation the two officers fell upon it as if they had not eaten for days. Nathan held back though his stomach growled wolfishly.

  “So.” He was battling to come to terms with all of this, and what it meant for him and his small force in the Gulf of Morbihan. “Tell me about the situation in Auray, w
hen you arrived?”

  Howard paused in the act of forking half a sausage into his mouth and laid it down with reluctance. “The Chouans held the town right enough. I would say there were above a thousand of them posted about the place.” He looked to Whiteley who confirmed this estimate with a nod. “But no more than half were armed. That is, with proper weapons: muskets or fowling pieces. Most had no more than a scythe or a pitchfork. Or a sling. We saw a lot of slings. They are very good at using them. They can bring down a bird in flight.” His voice had resumed its familiar sardonic tone but he caught Nathan’s eye and changed his tune. “They are not lacking in spirit, though they could use a little discipline. I would not care to lead them on an open field but I understand that is not their way, to fight in the open.”

  Nor would it be mine, reflected Nathan privately, if all I had to fight with was a sling and a scythe. He thought with regret of all the modern muskets stored in the holds of his gunboats.

  “Well, they are a peasant army,” he reminded Howard. “We knew this—that is why we came here. And what of the force that is opposed to them?”

  “About twice that number. Well-armed and equipped. And well-disciplined so far as we could tell. They have a number of field pieces. And they say more troops, including regulars, are closing in from Vannes.”

  “Who says?”

  “Well, the Republicans. They sent a deputation, under flag of truce, to demand the town’s surrender. On terms. Or there would be no quarter, they said. Charette declined. Just after that he made the decision to break out—and we took our chance on the river.”

  “So Auray is not cut off entirely ?”

  “They had covered the river with field pieces but it was dark and we went with the current. And they were somewhat distracted by Charette and his men.”

  “Even so, you did well,” Nathan assured him. He had changed his mind about Howard. “Now you had better finish eating and then look to your men while I consider what is to be done here.”

  When they had gone, Nathan sent for Bennett. He looked as dishevelled and as weary as the two officers but there was something else in his expression. An element of defiance—and barely constrained anger.

  “Well,” Nathan began, uneasily, “this is a fine kettle of fish.”

  “You could say that.”

  Whatever else the service had taught Bennett, it was not how to address an officer. Nathan tried not to resent it. He rather doubted if Bennett would give a damn if he did.

  “Did you speak with Charette?”

  “I did.”

  “And what did he make of the situation? I mean with the Royalists at Quiberon.”

  “You want me to give you his exact words?”

  “A summary will do.”

  “He thought them a bunch of cowards and whoresons.”

  “I see. And the talk of an uprising in Paris?”

  “Hogwash. Besides, even if it were true, why should it stop them marching inland?” Nathan had no answer to that. “Except that they have no stomach for a fight and wish to stay as close to the sea as they can—and the ships that will take them back to England.”

  “But it makes no sense,” Nathan protested. “Why would they come all this way to sit around on the shores of Quiberon until we take them off again?”

  “Maybe they thought to hear the government had fallen and they could march to Paris like conquering heroes.” Bennett wiped a grimy hand over his face. It did nothing to improve his looks or his temper. Exhaustion was etched in every feature. “Only it has not happened and now they are shitting their pants at the thought of Hoche heading their way.”

  “Hoche?”

  “Lazare Hoche. Republican general. Best they’ve got. Ex-corporal. Beat the Prussians on the Rhine in ’93. Now he is on his way here—with the Army of the West.”

  “You appear remarkably well informed.”

  “Charette told me.”

  Charette again.

  “Then Charette is remarkably well informed.”

  “He keeps an ear to the ground. He has to, being allied to traitors and scoundrels who are as much enemies to each other as they are to the Republic.”

  This was true. And certainly there was a strong whiff of betrayal in the air. But Nathan had other things on his mind. He broke the awkward silence that had fallen between them. “This Charette, what is he like?”

  A shrug. “I am not sure I am the right man to tell you. I have only met him twice and both times he was, one might say, preoccupied.”

  “Young or old? Soldier or civilian?”

  “In his middle thirties, I would say. He comes from La Garnache—on the coast, not far south of here. A nobleman. Old family. A good soldier, I think, though he was a naval officer before the Revolution. He served in the American War, fighting the British.”

  “A naval officer?” But why should that surprise him? Perhaps she had a taste for naval officers.

  “After the Revolution he emigrated to Germany. He was at Koblenz, with the royal court in exile.”

  As was Sara’s former husband, the Count of Turenne. They must have known each other. Was this the connection? Useless to speculate. But self-torture once begun was never easy to stop.

  “Handsome, brave, dashing … ?”

  Bennett shot him a puzzled look. “Well he is not ugly and certainly no coward. He confronted the mob when they stormed the Palace of the Tuileries. Saved the Queen’s life, according to some accounts.”

  “Marie Antoinette?”

  “I believe she was Queen at the time.”

  “So he was in Paris in ’92 …”

  Had Sara met him there? Had they been lovers, even then?

  “Strange that he was not arrested.”

  “He had connections, I believe. Service friends, men he had fought with in America and were in favour with the Republicans. He was allowed to live on his estates in the Vendée but when the peasants rose up they asked him to lead them. And he agreed, though from what I have heard he had no great hopes of them.”

  “Then why … ?”

  “If you saw what was happening in the Vendée at that time, you would not need to ask. It was a charnel house. He had no choice.”

  “So what are his chances of breaking out of Auray ?”

  Bennett considered. “Better than his chances of staying alive if he remains there.”

  “And this woman—who calls herself the Countess of Turenne—was she with him?” He tried to keep his voice casual.

  “La Renarde? No, she was not. She had been, but she left the day we arrived. For Quiberon.”

  “For Quiberon?” There was hope then for all he tried to suppress it.

  “To carry a message from Charette to the Royalist commanders—and the British. So I was told.”

  Nathan frowned. “Is that not extraordinary, to give such a task to a woman?”

  “She is an extraordinary woman.” He regarded Nathan curiously. “You have never met her?” Then he shook his head. “But how could you?”

  “I told you, Bennett, I was asked to make enquiry of her—by friends of hers that are in England. She has a son there, a young boy. She will be concerned to know that he is safe and well and with … with friends.”

  “Well, maybe you will find her in Quiberon,” said Bennett, “for that is where this business will end, I think. In Quiberon, with their backs to the sea. And God help them, if your ships do not take them off. “

  CHAPTER SIX

  Apocalypse

  NATHAN BRACED HIMSELF against the mizzen shrouds of the Unicorn and stared, appalled, at the unfolding tragedy on the shores of Quiberon. Here were all the ingredients of Chaos, plundered from the Book of Revelations. Th under, lightning, strong winds and driving rain; the sea a raging fury and a sky like the wrath of God. And all a mere backdrop to the real drama enacted upon the storm-lashed beaches: the struggling, surging, desperate mass of people: men, women, children, babes in arms, wounded soldiers, half-drowned sailors; ten, twenty, maybe thirty th
ousand or more, fighting, squabbling, lying down to die or stretching out their arms in supplication to the unrelenting sea.

  And the English ships that were their only hope of salvation.

  Nathan had taken the Unicorn as close in as he dared under her jury rig, for even here in the bay, with the long claw of Quiberon providing some shelter from the pounding seas of Biscay, there was a great risk of shipwreck. He could see the shattered remains of several small boats on the beach and others foundering in the breakers, their timbers stove in, tossed this way and that, the playthings of the waves. The tide was out and much of the shore bristled with rocks, the angry waves crashing against them and exploding high into the air as if in fury at the helpless prey just beyond their reach; and yet Nathan could see people clinging there, others wading out breast-high through the foam: women with babies held high above their heads as the sea broke over them and the lightning flashed and the clouds rolled in from the west. And all around the carnage and debris of defeat: clothing and timber and all the accoutrements of war and its victims: horses, mules and men, floating lifeless upon that terrible tide, like a rehearsal for the Apocalypse.

  The Unicorn was lying to with her topyards backed and all four of her boats out—it was for this reason Nathan had brought the frigate so close to shore—and he watched anxiously as they heaved and plunged in the breakers just off the reefs, trying to pluck a few souls from the water. Their orders were to take off only the fighting men, so that they might be landed further down the coast to pursue what was clearly a lost cause, but it was impossible to stop the sailors from trying to rescue women and children who had advanced towards them through the waves. The gig found a gap in the rocks and was immediately assailed by a floundering rush from the shore and Nathan watched in anguish as the crew was forced to beat off their helpless supplicants with oars and cutlasses.

  “Dear God, how has it come to this?” he shouted to Tully, braced beside him at the rail. But Tully could only shake his head, as perplexed and helpless as he. It was the storm that answered, with a great flash of lightning and the almost instantaneous roar of thunder, mocking the puny belligerence of the guns of Fort Penthièvre on the narrow strip of sand linking the peninsula to the mainland. In the past few days the fort had twice changed hands—and names, for it had been called Fort Sans Culottes by the Republicans in honour of the Paris mob. Held briefly by the Royalists, it had been recaptured in the last twenty-four hours, thanks in large part to the treachery of the very troops sent to defend it.