Robertson pronounced the name of his immediate senior as “Cawmell” and Richard sensed a hint of scorn. He learnt more about the garrison over the next hour or so. There were artillery-men and engineers at Elizabeth Castle under Captain Aylward; the 78th (Highland) Regiment, or some of it, under Captain Lumsden, stationed in the western outskirts of St Helier; and some of the 95th Regiment further out in St Peter’s Parish. There were three thousand or more, with thousands of militia as well, but no sort of plan for defending the place.
“It’s as well, sir, that the French don’t know the state of the island,” said Richard finally but the soured lieutenant would not agree.
“Why shouldna they ken? There’s trade with St Malo with comings and goings, and yon Corbet taking his share. Where d’ye think this wine comes frae?”
Richard finally spent the rest of the night at La Fontaine, sleeping on the floor until roused by Robertson, who had been visiting his sentinels.
“Is all well, sir?” asked Richard.
“I dinna ken,” said Robertson, warming his hands at what remained of the fire. “There’s dogs barking to the westward. There’s something astir that way.” He called for his servant to make tea and call the other officers. “It’s near seven,” he said.
“We’ll stand to in half an hour.” He had hardly spoken before there came the sound of a galloping horse. Robertson was outside in an instant, with Richard at his heels. It was still pitch dark but Richard could see that the sentinels were alert with muskets at the ready.
Nearer came the sound and then, quite suddenly, the horseman was reining up in front of them.
“Who goes there?” demanded the sentinel.
“Captain Hemery of the Town Militia.”
“What’s the password?”
“Elizabeth.”
“Pass, friend. All’s well.”
“All’s well be damned—where’s Captain Campbell?”
At this point Robertson spoke up. “At Fort Conway, sir. I’m Robertson of the 83rd. Wad you tell me what’s happened?”
“I’ll tell you, by God. The French have landed and have captured St Helier!”
The militia officer galloped on to Fort Conway and Robertson turned to Richard. “Your warning came too late, laddie!” A minute later he was shouting for the colour-sergeant and telling the sentinel to fire in the air. “Aye, that’ll rouse them!” he muttered. “On parade, colour-sergeant, and give out ball cartridge. Drummer—sound the alarm!”
Grouville came alive with lights in the windows and doors opening, men cursing and dogs barking. Then the drum rolled and the half-company began to fall in. Sergeants called the roll and ensigns inspected the muskets. Ten minutes later and soon after the half-company had been reported present and correct, came the sound of the guns. Cannon were firing at St Helier, that much was obvious. Richard wondered what he should do next. His original errand had become pointless and it remained for him to make himself useful—but where and how? He was still wondering when the sound came of another galloping horse. This time it was a civilian and one merely anxious to escape from the French. Robertson questioned him about the numbers of the enemy but he vaguely replied, “Thousands!” To the further question, however, “Where did they land?” his answer was more explicit: “At La Rocque Point, seemingly. They marched in through the Colomberie.”
After this informant had gone, Robertson turned to Richard in despair. “My God—d’ye see what this means? They landed under our verra noses! The 83rd let them through! We’re disgraced for ever.” Richard could see very well what he meant. But he remembered the chart and thought to himself that a landing at La Rocque Point was lunacy. “I must report to the captain,” said Robertson. “And you had best come with me, Mr Delancey. Mr Fraser, I leave you in command.” By the time they had found Captain Campbell and made their respective reports, it was just beginning to get light. The sound of the guns had died away and all was oddly quiet.
Captain Campbell turned out to be very much as Richard had pictured him—elderly, pot-bellied and indecisive. “I can’t quit my post here,” he said several times. “Not without orders.” His sergeant-major said something about marching towards the sound of the guns. “When ordered, yes. But I don’t know what the situation is.” Then Robertson intervened: “You would likely know more, sir, if you sent a wee patrol down to La Rocque Point.”
“But then orders might come and I not able to march until the patrol returned.”
The discussion continued but always returned to the same point: Captain Campbell would do nothing without an order from someone senior to him. The group had been reduced to an irritated silence when their deliberations were interrupted by an extraordinary apparition. Out of the morning mist came two 9-pounder cannon pushed laboriously by a motley group of rustics and followed by a horse-drawn box-cart. In command was a bellicose and excited clergyman, who presently introduced himself as the Rev. Le Couteur, Rector of St Martin’s. The cannon were his own property, he said, the artillerymen his own parishioners. They had pushed the cannon over two miles (largely downhill) and wanted only to be shown the enemy! Why a clergyman should possess artillery was, and remained, a mystery, but Campbell had only a tepid welcome for this timely reinforcement. He told the rector to rest his men and supply them, if he could, with breakfast. The word having given him an idea, he then dismissed his own men to breakfast but with orders to parade again in an hour’s time. By then, he prayed inwardly, someone would have told him what to do. The only suggestion he accepted was one made by Robertson, that the other half-company should be brought from Grouville, bringing the whole detachment together. This was done, the total strength amounting, Richard guessed, to perhaps two hundred.
It was light by now and refugees began to come in from St Helier, a few with horses and carts but mostly on foot, straggling in parties of five or six. They had much to say for themselves and some had actually seen the French. A young English-speaking tailor, who lived in Queen Street, had seen Major Corbet taken prisoner. Others taken with him were Mr Durell, Mr Hogg and Mr Chariton. They had all been taken by surprise. They were being held in the Court House.
“Would there be any firing when ye left?” asked Robertson.
“No, sir. There was firing at first, which woke us all, and that was the town guard being overcome. There was none after that.”
“But we heard cannon … ?”
“That was from the castle, sir, and fired, I reckon, to give the alarm.”
“How many Frenchmen would there be?”
“I couldn’t rightly say. We left, you see, in the dark. But I was told by a neighbour that five thousand had landed and that another ten thousand are on their way from St Malo.”
“Were the French pillaging the town?”
“No, sir, not that I saw.”
“But you fled for safety?”
“My wife’s expecting, sir.”
“Where are you going then?”
“To my cousin’s at Gorey.”
Other refugees were less coherent, talking vaguely about atrocities they had not witnessed but of which they had been told. Robertson, using Richard as interpreter when necessary, heard much the same story from others with the addition of some tale about Elizabeth Castle which might, by one account, be still in British hands. Several other folk repeated the story of the ten thousand Frenchmen on their way from St Malo. With St Helier in French hands they would at least have a harbour at which to land.
“Weel,” said Robertson finally, “there is nae much doot that St Helier has fallen, but as to the enemy’s strength I canna mak sense o’ it.”
“Nor I,” said Richard, “but this talk of an army on the way is rubbish.”
“And for why, Mr Delancey?”
“They could’ve assembled such a force without our hearing of it.” (Richard remembered of Captain Fearnside’s words.)
“Maybe they couldna at that. But what have they ashore already?”
“If I saw their flotilla, sir
, I could make a guess.”
“Is it that easy, man?”
“I have served in conjunct expeditions, sir.”
Richard realised, in saying this, that he was talking too much like a navy captain. He added quickly, “Only a rough guess.”
Robertson smiled suddenly: “I’m thinking, laddie, that you’ll some day mak a gude officer.”
Things remained at a standstill for another hour or so. The church clock struck nine and Richard had the sickening sense of time being wasted. He had often been told, and now firmly believed, that to do nothing in war is nearly always wrong. Campbell made his men fall in again and carried out another inspection of their muskets. It was still bitterly cold with the wind in the east and more than a hint of rain. Campbell’s horse was being led up and down by his orderly. When stood at ease, the soldiers stamped to warm their feet. The only other noise was the distant cry of the gulls.
At about half past nine came the sound of a horse at the trot. Then a mounted officer came in sight, was challenged and allowed to pass, and finally reined up in front of Campbell.
“Lieutenant Snow, sir, of the militia.” He saluted stiffly. “I have a letter for you, sir, from the lieutenant-governor.” He pulled the letter from his greatcoat pocket and handed it over.
Campbell tore it open and read it aloud for the benefit of his officers:
To the commanding officer of the 83rd Regiment.
St Helier, 6 Jan. 1781
The island being surprised, to save the town from being destroyed and obtain certain privileges to the inhabitants, the lieutenant-governor hath signed the capitulation; the troops are to march with the honours of war, the militia are to be quiet and hostilities are to cease.
M. Corbet, Lt.-Gov.
Enclosed with this letter was another page in the same handwriting but with no signature.
The regular and militia are not to fire till further orders.
Looking round at the others, Campbell said solemnly: “So that is that, gentlemen. Major Corbet has capitulated and we must obey orders. Tell the parade to dismiss, Mr Robertson, but no man to leave barracks.”
As this order was obeyed the militia officer saluted and rode off towards Gorey, carrying similar letters, no doubt, for other military posts between Mont Orgueil and Rozel.
Campbell led his officers indoors with the intention of explaining to them the difference between “capitulation” and “surrender.” He knew, none better, the etiquette of warfare. Richard followed the others in, uninvited but no one questioning his right to be there. They were all, at that moment, too stunned to question anything. Captain Campbell stood with his back to the fire, looking happier than he had done since daybreak. He was no coward but he liked to be told what he had to do. Here were his orders—and, better still, written orders—which he could produce at any subsequent court martial. How right he had been to stay where he was! Any action he could have taken would have been in flat contradiction of the order he had since received; an order indeed which he had rather cleverly anticipated.
“You will be as grieved as I am, gentlemen, that the campaign should have ended like this. Our duty, however, is clear, and you must all obey orders to the letter. First—”
It was going to be a good lecture but it stopped at that point. Captain Campbell knew his duty (none better) but there was one factor—or, rather, one person—he had overlooked. He had forgotten about the rector of St Martin’s.
Chapter 9
BATTLE OF ST HELIER
THE ENTRANCE of the Rev. Francis Le Couteur had all the impact of an exploding bomb. At one moment Captain Campbell was about to make a speech. An instant later he was fighting for his life. The rector of St Martin’s was not a big man but he seemed at that moment to fill the room, everyone else being pushed against the walls by the mere force of his personality. “What is this?” he shouted as he stormed in. “Do I hear aright—that you have surrendered? That you have laid down your arms without firing a shot?” Reeling under this frontal attack, Campbell said that he had the lieutenant-governor’s order to cease fire.
“Major Corbet’s order? But he is no longer governor! He is no longer anything! He is on his knees to the French now and will be on his knees before a court martial afterwards. Mr Corbet is finished for ever. Let’s hear no more rubbish about orders from him!”
“But I have his orders in writing, sir—orders from my superior officer.”
“Let me see them!”
“Very well, sir. Read them for yourself.”
The clergyman looked them over and returned to the charge. “He signed that meaningless nonsense with a French sword at his throat. And the other sheet he hasn’t signed at all.”
“I have my orders, sir.”
“Fiddlesticks! You wear a sword, don’t you? Then use it, man! Drive this pack of rascals out of the island!”
“My force is too weak for that.”
“It’s you who are too weak! You’ll leave all the fighting to the 95th, will you?”
“But they have the same orders!”
“And do you think Major Peirson is the man to obey them? You have met him, surely? You have spoken with him, haven’t you? Can you see him agreeing to surrender?”
“But the governor—”
“Stop bleating about the governor. We have none. All we have is a pack of cowardly French waiting for you to destroy them.”
“But—but—”
“But nothing. March on St Helier! Don’t waste another instant. Every moment is precious! Into battle, man, or you’ll go down in history as a coward.”
That Campbell should have resisted this onslaught is incredible but he did so, shaking his head and seeking refuge in his bedroom. The rector turned at once to Mr Robertson.
“Now’s your opportunity! Take command and march into St Helier. You have the chance to be famous!”
“I have the chance to be cashiered, sir. I micht no’ heed the governor’s order but I canna supersede the captain. That would finish me in the regiment.”
“Look, Mr Robertson. I’m a man of some property. If you lose your commission, I’ll make it up to you.”
“It’s mair than that, sir. Na, I canna do as you ask. I’m under orders, ye see.”
“But I am not!” said Richard, speaking for the first time since entering the room.
“You are junior to me, Mr Delancey.”
“I am not, sir.”
“You’ll do as you’re told!”
“I’ll do as I please. Reverend sir, I’m with you. Shall we go?”
They left together and the clergyman looked at him in wonder: “What about your career?”
“I have been a midshipman, sir, but I have no ship at present and am merely a private individual with some knowledge of cannon. I suggest we take your guns into battle.”
“And so we shall! We’ll reach St Helier in an hour.”
“No, sir. By your leave, I can offer you a better target close at hand. The vessels off La Rocque Point in which the French came! Leave St Helier to the 95th and cut off the French retreat.”
“You’re a man after my own heart. Let’s have those guns on their way!”
Ten minutes later the small column started off, headed by the rector. His parishioners present numbered 22, enough to keep the guns moving and drive the cart which carried the ammunition. But Richard was concerned to find that they were all unarmed. He also realised that the men were far from their own parish and unfamiliar, therefore, with the ground. He was relieved, therefore, when he saw three militiamen coming towards him, muskets in hand.
“Where are you going?” he asked in French.
They explained that they were going to Grouville to join up with their company of the East Regiment.
“Have you seen the French?” asked the rector.
“Yes, sir—with guns and all, with boats and ships.”
“Then lead us towards them.”
“But, sir—our company—”
“Your compa
ny will be coming this way—so you can save yourself the walk.”
With some difficulty the militiamen were persuaded to march towards the enemy. After an hour’s march Richard stopped the column, explaining to his clergyman friend that the time had come to do some scouting.
“We must find the right position from which to open fire.”
“But if we stop here, we shall be wasting time.”
“No, sir. We’ll waste more time if we take the wrong path. And we’ll ruin all if the French see us coming.”
There was no time to explain at length but the Rev. M. Le Couteur luckily took his word for it and his men were more than glad of the rest.
“Come with me,” said Richard to the militiamen.
As they marched on, Richard tried to explain what he wanted; a position from which two guns could be brought into action. It had to be approached unseen, with a hollow behind it for the ammunition cart. It had to offer a clear field of fire and a good view of the target. He doubted at the end whether they had the least idea of what he was talking about. They muttered among themselves, however, and one of them presently offered to act as guide. Following a path to the left under his guidance and passing through a gap in the wall on their right, they presently came out in a field near a farmhouse. Below them and less than a mile distant was the Plat Rocque Battery, in enemy hands. To the left and further away was the flotilla, at anchor, from which the French had landed. The exposed position where he was would not serve, although admittedly within range, but there was another and slightly higher hillock further forward and on his right, surmounted by a wall made of loose granite. After a few minutes of hurried inspection he decided that this was the place. He marked the gun positions, on flat ground, twenty yards apart and left a militiaman at each with orders to make a gap in the wall about four feet wide. With the third militiaman (the guide) he hurried back to the point where the Rev. M. Le Couteur was waiting impatiently. The order was given to advance and another half-hour saw the cannon manhandled into position behind the wall, each with its own embrasure.
The Guernseyman Page 12