by Tom Anderson
As the Third Platinean War began, however, the Haiti situation naturally deteriorated. American hopes for a speedy annexation and settlement of the island had been dashed. The problems were manifold. The black Haitian militias under Vincent Ogé continued to fight a Kleinkrieger campaign from the jungles after the Americans had driven them from the cities, and American tactics grew ever more brutal and controversial in attempts to suppress them. Furthermore, there was tension between the Carolinians and the troops from the other Confederations. The Carolinians had two motivations for the war: to use Haiti as a destination for white settlers as they had Cuba, and to prevent the creation of a free black republic that might conflict with the ideologies they espoused in order to justify the institution of slavery. The Virginians concurred with the second part of this, but not the first; it was obvious that the Carolinians intended sole domination of Haiti, arguing that this was only fair compensation from the fact that the American political establishment had decided against any attempt to settle or annex Louisiana, and therefore Carolina was blocked from westward settlement. The three northern Confederations, having abolished slavery (though fire-breathing abolitionism remained a minority view) saw no reason to have their sons die from disease and Ogé’s musket balls over this Godforsaken island. Friction had increased ever since the initial afterglow had worn off from the apparently easy conquest of the island in 1803.
Great Britain had reasons to oppose the existence of a free Haiti as well. Although slavery had been confirmed as illegal in the country in various court cases in the 1760s and 1770s, and the slave trade had been abolished in 1802 in one of the chief achievements of the Reform Coalition, slavery was still legal in the British West Indies such as Jamaica and Bermuda. It was likely that the Carolinian political establishment eventually saw those islands as being amalgamated into the Confederation as well, which Britain opposed, but the problem was nonetheless the same: a free Haiti could touch off economically costly slave revolts elsewhere. Thus, although counter to the sensibilities of the Foxite ministry, a smaller Royal Navy force and three British regiments were sent to Haiti in July 1806 to try to take up the slack from the reduced numbers of Americans there. Hamilton also considered the friction between the Carolinians and the other Confederations, and created a novel plan: he refused the Carolinian Assembly’s request to send another regiment to Haiti.
The Carolinians’ Speaker, James Rutledge, had concocted a clever solution to the obvious method of blocking this – sending them to the UPSA instead. Rutledge had argued that the bulk of the Marines on the American Squadron were Carolinian-recruited and thus asking the confederation to send more was asking too much. However, Hamilton instead sent the 101st West Carolina Regiment of Foot to Ireland for manoeuvres. This meshed well with how Fox had sent two Irish regiments to the Mediterranean to replace the diminished garrisons at Gibraltar and Malta. At the time, it was a simple political trick by Hamilton; history would conspire to make it turn the nineteenth century upside down.
So, as the year 1807 dawned, Prime Minister Fox was reluctantly fighting two wars in the New World, the Third Platinean War and the ‘Haitian Ulcer’, as the more radical elements of the British press sourly described it. The last thing the country needed was another European war as well, yet it seemed one was brewing. France was moving. It is nothing but tired, parrotted propaganda to state that Fox was still blind to the danger of Lisieux. Indeed, ironically, he had turned against Lisieux for quite the wrong reasons, many believed. For example, he had regarded with horror Lisieux’s self-interested decision to sell out Fabien Lascelles’ Bavarian Germanic Republic to the Austrians; if Fox was truly blind, he was blind only to the brutalities that so many had committed in the name of the Revolution. Furthermore, after the crisis of 1803 with Nelson’s attack on the French fleet at Minorca on behalf of Naples, Fox had realised that support for Lisieux could no longer be countenanced in a British political establishment that regarded Nelson as a hero – a hero who had abandoned his own country because it had shut the door of opportunity in his face.
The mistakes and accidents of history that followed therefore cannot be so simply dismissed by laying all the blame at Fox’s feet. Reports circulated, via Sir Sidney Smith’s Unnumbered and other agents working for the British, that the French shipbuilding effort in Toulon and Marseilles had accelerated yet further over the past few years, with steamcraft being built by the dozen, including those outfitted for use as transports. Why the Mediterranean? it was wondered. And they had their answer, of course. Lisieux had made it clear in his propaganda that he eventually wanted to reclaim at least all of the former possessions of Bourbon France – which of course meant that the Royalist regime in the Vendée was living on borrowed time, but also had unpleasant implications elsewhere. The Corsican Republic, a British ally, was a former French possession. Its president, Pasquale Paoli, had died in 1805 and he had been succeeded by Carlo Andrea Pozzo di Borgo, who was slightly more lukewarm towards the British alliance. Furthermore, Lisieux’s blasts after Nelson’s attack on Minorca had suggested that he wanted France to dominate the western Mediterranean. Hoche’s attempts to conquer Naples had failed spectacularly, but Lisieux would at least ensure that the Neapolitan fleet could not threaten France again. And to dominate the western Mediterranean, France would probably have to take British Malta, and maybe Gibraltar as well. It was possible; under the ancien régime France had conquered Minorca from Britain years before after all. And Fox had stripped Malta and Gibraltar’s garrisons for America…
Hence the quick supplementation of Malta and Gibraltar with an Irish regiment, the 18th Foot. Hence also the fact that Fox split the Home Fleet and sent half of it to serve as a new Mediterranean Squadron, while recalling escorts on East India Company convoys in order to rebuild the Home Fleet to strength. But that would take time, of course. And while the new Mediterranean Squadron under Admiral John Jervis docked at Bastia in Corsica and waited for a French steamfleet to pour forth from Marseilles and Toulon, the smaller Home Fleet under Admiral Michael Parker tried to maintain a watch on the Channel with its temporarily reduced numbers.
Then a second rumour arose, that the French were building a second fleet in their northern ports, a fleet that included many sail transports captured by Surcouf from the Dutch in his privateering campaigns. Whispers abounded that the French were preparing for an invasion of England herself, and with Fox having pared down the Home Fleet! But that was absurd, of course; even with steam technology, even half the Home Fleet outnumbered the French northern force considerably. The sheer size of the Royal Navy and the disparity of numbers could not be exaggerated. No; the French must have another target in mind.
This was confirmed in March 1807, when Lisieux finally threw down his cards and openly launched ‘Le Grande Crabe’, declaring war on the now self-proclaimed Kingdom of Flanders and the Republic of the United Netherlands. Marshal Boulanger once more accepted a field command, delegating his role in Piedmont to General Bourcier, late of the failing operations in Spain. Ten years ago, Boulanger had saved the Republic by negotiating a peace with the Flemings; now, he must break that peace. He knew the terrain – he had pioneered the use of Cugnot steam-wagons upon it. The glory of the Battle of Lille, which had catapulted him to a position of power, would shine forth once more. The Flemings and the Dutch would be crushed.
But the fight could easily bog down if the Dutch were allowed to support the Flemings and care not for their own defence. So the first wave of the French fleet left from Le Havre on March 17th, sailing east up the Channel. This wave included most of the remaining sail ships of the line and frigates that France possessed, under the command of the controversial Admiral Villeneuve. Its purpose was to engage the Dutch home fleet at the mouth of the Zuiderzee, destroy it if possible, and pave the way for French landings in the northern provinces of the Netherlands. A second army had been prepared under Hoche for this purpose and was stationed at Dieppe, including Hoche’s last remaining hard core of Italian loyal
ists. Lisieux had chosen the mission carefully. There was a possibility that Hoche might be able to win real victories and act as a real left pincer for Le Grande Crabe. Alternatively, he might only hold down Dutch troops and force the Dutch to divert armies away from the Flemish front in order to crush him. Either were worthy goals as far as Lisieux was concerned; he kept Hoche around because he was probably the best general of the age, but never forgot his earlier betrayal.
Villeneuve’s fleet sailed to engage the Dutch. As always, the presence of a serious French force in the Channel necessitated a British shadow squadron. So Admiral Parker sent four of his ships of the line to follow Villeneuve, ensuring he had no ambitions on the British coast. After all, Villeneuve’s fleet included two transports, in the opportunistic hope that they might be able to land troops after defeating the Dutch. The Channel Fleet was thus reduced further, and the regiments stationed in the South of England were put on alert.
Of course there were no plans for an invasion of England. On the 20th of March, Villeneuve fought the Dutch fleet under Admiral Pieter van Carnbee and won a Pyrrhic victory; the Dutch had superior training but were surprised by the sudden French assault, fought with Villeneuve’s typical audacity. The French managed to land their troops on Texel and the other Frisian islands, deploying artillery in an attempt to control the approaches to the Zuiderzee and prevent any further Dutch ships from breaking out. However, too few of Villeneuve’s ships remained to press the advantage further. He sent a message to Calais via a disguised fishing boat with the news of his limited success, and the information that the Dutch were in no position to defend if Hoche’s army were now to be transported there.
And then, on the 22nd of March, the unpredictable Channel weather struck. The waters of La Manche were capable of being quite as hostile as those of the Southern Ocean if they felt like it, but now it was just the opposite – the waters were as flat as a mill pond and undisturbed by the slightest breath of wind. Admiral Parker had his ships towed, mostly by rowboat but a few by the new Fulton steam tugs, to the usual sheltering place in the South Kentish Downs, between the North and South Forelands – where, ironically, the Dutch had once ambushed a Spanish fleet during their long wars. Sail combat was hard to envisage in such weather.
The French, however, had a steam fleet. So, as the Boulangerie enthusiastically informed Lisieux, they could still send Hoche’s troops to the Netherlands. Surcouf’s captured sail transports could be towed by tugs. And this time the nosy anglais would be unable to shadow them as they invaded the Dutch, either. The Dutch themselves lacked steam tugs, as far as was known, and so could not hope to reply even if they had left ships in reserve. Things were going according to plan, indeed better than had been hoped. The Flemings and Dutch, a problem to the Republic for ten years, would finally be crushed.
So…the Boulangerie ministers continued to fill the silence, did they have permission to tell Hoche and Admiral Surcouf they were authorised to launch?
And Lisieux…
Hesitated.
Chapter #66: L’Otarie
- Where does the Administrator of France keep his Army?
- Up his Sleevey!
- joke by the characters of Captain Michaels and Lieutenant Stephens,
in the black comedy play I Think I Left The Gas On, 1958
*
From: “Jean de Lisieux: Dark Fire” by François Garnier (1926)—
The stage was set. The battle plan known as Le Grand Crabe had gone like clockwork – or a steam engine. Villeneuve had won an unconvincing but adequate victory over the Dutch Republic, and the second fleet of Surcouf was ready to escort Hoche’s army in its transports (ironically largely captured by Surcouf from the Dutch) to attack the Netherlands from the north. All was ready, and soon France’s list of serious enemies would shrink from two to one.
But then Jean de Lisieux hesitated.
The speculative romances would have us believe that all great world events come down to the toss of a coin, the drop of a pin, the want of a nail. Usually this is a conceit aimed at justifying the Whiggish ‘Central Character’ interpretation of history[55] and should not concern modern-thinking historians. However, there are exceptions that prove the rule, and this was certainly one of them.
Throughout his political career, Lisieux had wavered and veered between caution and recklessness, slowly building up power or strategies or armies, and then launching audacious gambles with that buildup. It was, as one alienist [psychologist] has suggested, as though his mind was a boiling pressure cooker of ideas, slowly building up as he struggled to guide his Republic to the true path that only he knew, then being released in a terrific blast aimed at his enemies.
If this was truly his mental state – there is scarcely a shortage of alienists, biographers and amateur pundits speculating on the subject – then it had served the Republic fairly well thus far. Notably, it had led to the doctrine of focusing on one enemy at a time, which had led to the initially highly successful lightning campaign against Spain. Indeed it was when Lisieux deviated from this kind of thinking, ordering Ney to try to keep up a constant pressure on what would become the Mittelbund, that the French ran into problems. So one might expect a triumph here.
But the problem was that Lisieux had already embarked on an audacious gamble with this plan to begin with. Boulanger’s conventional assault across the Flemish border was not enough; Villeneuve, Surcouf and Hoche had to strike at the Netherlands from the north, and that had been far from a guaranteed success, considering the strength of the Dutch Navy (which, fortunately for the French, was now dispersed).
That gamble had paid off… and suddenly Lisieux found himself feeling cheated, inadequate. Victory was not enough. The conquest of the Low Countries was not enough. The world was not enough.
Some have traced a genuine shift in Lisieux’s mental state to that moment, trying to explain his deviating from previous behaviour. But I follow von Klung’s view in arguing that in truth Lisieux had made a slow and steady progression – just as he wanted his Republic to do so. There was no dramatic shift in a day from the charismatic mob leader who rode the Tortues to crush the Paris rising sparked by Hébert’s death in 1796, to the reclusive and paranoid all-controlling dictator who now sits, the silence slowly lengthening as tension mounts, at the head of a table and listens to the Boulangerie telling him of the successes of Villeneuve.
He sits there, his skin pale and his eyes red from months, years of sitting in basements and writing propaganda by candlelight. He has tried to remake France, the Republic, the world in his own image one pen-scratch at a time, refusing to look upon it until it is perfect.
Now, now he sits in silence. The Boulangerie members exchange looks, very hesitantly, terrified he might raise a hand and calmly speak the fatal words. Lisieux had once pledged to end Robespierre’s policy of killing people out of hand for being ‘impure’. For the most part, he had kept that pledge… but some of the things Lisieux could find for ‘impure’ individuals to do would make them beg for Robespierre’s swift dispensal of phlogistonic justice.
And finally he speaks. Not decisively, as some have portrayed it; the testaments of all three journals that have survived from the Boulangerie members are clear on that. Instead, he asks a question. Idly, as though it is a trivial and highly theoretical matter, a calculus problem perhaps.
“How large is Admiral Parker’s fleet?”
They were confused, but the Boulangerie was well-informed. Lisieux had insisted on that. Louis Chappe’s semaphore network had begun in the 1790s as a few early experimental towers connecting Paris to the then-front line (and now once more) on the Flemish border, but it had proved itself by communicating war information to French leaders far faster than any human messenger could. Indeed it had played its part in Lisieux’s rise to power, when he had hoarded its data and used it to prepare for events that no-one else yet knew had happened. It had meant he could lay his trap for Robespierre, knowing about British successes before anyone else di
d. Now, Chappe and his fellow long distance communication pioneers had benefited from a decade of investment from Paris, with the result that France had what was quite simply the strongest link between its capital and its distant provinces of any country in the world, including many smaller ones. That had worked well for Lisieux’s goals of centralisation and homogenisation to fit his mission. Now, it once more powered France’s war ambitions.
So the Boulangerie answered. Parker’s fleet numbered six ships of the line, eight frigates, and a couple of brigs or gunboats from the coastal flotilla. Not very large. Smaller than a British Channel Fleet had been for years. Of course, that was a very temporary situation; it was only because a large part of the Royal Navy had been sent to the Americas and the Mediterranean, and Parker had detached part of his own fleet to shadow Villeneuve. Still, it was unlikely that Surcouf’s force could beat it under balanced conditions.
Lisieux asked a second question: “What does the weather hold?”
Another Revolutionary innovation. Louis Chappe had rigged his semaphore towers to transmit a local weather report along with each message. Originally this had simply been due to the fact that the towers had to prepare for darkening weather conditions by lighting the night-lamps on their signal paddles, but a bright spark had realised that it could be used for constructing weather maps across France. The great mathematician Pierre-Simon Laplace had headed the effort to compile them, and now L’Académie de la Peuple published weekly maps showing the weather across France in symbols and Cocteau degrees.[56] It had not taken the Boulangerie long to work out that this also might be of use in war.
