The Guernseyman

by Parkinson, C. Northcote

  “And Major Corbet?”

  “He’s over there by the Court House, where the French general fell—the useless, cowardly, rotten fool!” There, sure enough, was a tall and impressive officer, showing his hat to a militia colonel—there had evidently been a bullet through it. This might look well enough, Richard thought, but he would not have been in Corbet’s shoes for all that. The man’s reputation was beyond repair.

  The French weapons were being collected in a heap and Richard added his cutlass to the pile. Having nothing more to do, he walked down to the harbour to ask when the packet for Guernsey would leave. She should have sailed that morning, he was told, but would probably now sail within the hour. He went aboard and paid for his passage, being joined presently by a young ensign from the 78th. His name was Woodcock and he was taking the news to Guernsey of the French defeat.

  “By whose orders are you sent?” asked Richard.

  “Major Corbet’s,” said Mr Woodcock. “But, between ourselves, I don’t suppose he’ll be in command for long. He’ll be facing a court martial, I fancy. All the credit will go to Major Peirson, and Corbet is finished. Some of our men fired at him but missed, more’s the pity. They hit the French general, though.”

  “Did they kill him?”

  “Not instantly, but he’s not expected to live.”

  “What was the strength of his force?”

  “Something over five hundred in St Helier, I’m told. Not all his men landed, it seems, and of those that landed quite a few were drowned.”

  “With a hundred or so at La Rocque Point, that gives him a total strength of something under a thousand. To attack Jersey with that force seems madness!”

  “It was a hazardous enterprise, to be sure. What seems astonishing is that he should so nearly have succeeded.”

  “He was fortunate to lose so few men as he did in landing. That coast around La Rocque Point is all but impassable; a tangle of rocks, and he attempted it in the dark!”

  “He must have had local help—a pilot to lead him in. And someone must have told him that La Rocque Point was unguarded. There was treachery, that’s certain.”

  “There would seem to be no doubt about it.”

  Richard was glad to have a meal on board the packet after she had sailed. The talk at table was all about the attack on Jersey, several men having their own stories to tell. One had actually seen the Baron de Rullecourt during his brief governorship of the island. Another had known Peter Arrive, a civilian who had been murdered by the French. All agreed that the French had been lucky to succeed as well as they did. Richard agreed silently, thinking to himself that their luck had begun before they landed, for the Ariel had missed them by no more than an hour or two.

  “Did you hear,” one passenger was saying, “of the part played in this affair by a clergyman? He was from St Martin’s, I’m told, and he actually brought two guns into action against the French.”

  “That would be the Rev. M. Le Couteur,” said an older man, “I can picture him doing that.”

  “Yes, that’s right. Le Couteur is the name. He comes out of the affair with more credit than most of the soldiers. What went wrong, sir, would you say?”

  The question was addressed to Ensign Woodcock, who replied: “Well, to begin with, sir, there was no senior officer on the island.”

  There was some further discussion about the garrison’s lack of vigilance and then the man who had first mentioned Mr Le Couteur came back to that topic.

  “A fine man he is, the rector of St Martin’s, and my hope is that his part in this affair will always be remembered.”

  “A fine man he must be,” said the ensign. “From what you tell me I would conclude that he should be a bishop.”

  More to himself than to the others Richard added absently: “Or, anyway, a Canon.”

  Chapter 10

  ALGEÇIRAS

  IN NOVEMBER 1781 Richard Delancey joined the Vernon storeship at Chatham Dockyard. He had been without regular employment for much of that year but was finally rescued by Captain Henry Trollope, whose acquaintance he had made in America and who was now the commander of the Kite, stationed in the Downs. A private letter from Trollope, written in reply to his, advised him that he would find a berth as fourth mate if he applied to the master of the Vernon. This recommendation proved effective and Mr Mansell welcomed him aboard. The Vernon was no man-of-war but it was soon obvious that she had been taken up for a special purpose. For a mere storeship she was to be unusually well armed and her cargo included a number of gunboats, built in frame and then dismantled and shipped for service overseas. The ship also took on board quantities of provisions and timber, leaving no one with much doubt as to her destination.

  “We are bound for Gibraltar, that’s certain,” said the captain at Richard’s first dinner on board. “The French and Spanish must know by now that the place will never be starved into surrender. We have relieved it twice already and they know that we’ll do it again. That leaves them with a choice, either to storm the fortress or raise the siege. They’ll make their big assault this coming year and I reckon that our gunboats are part of the preparations for beating them off.”

  “Or will the place fall before we get there?” asked the second mate, Robert Pitman.

  “Never!” replied the first mate, Ian Maitland. “General Eliott is not the man to ask for quarter. Did you ever hear tell of him, sir?”

  “I don’t know that I have,” said the captain. “Only that he is governor there and stands well to his guns.”

  “Well, sir, he knows his trade, having studied fortification in France and Woolwich. He’s well over sixty, eats no meat but only vegetables, tastes no wine and sleeps no more than four hours a night. No sentinel of his would dare close an eyelid. He’ll hold Gibraltar if anyone can.”

  “This is how one Scotsman speaks of another.”

  “He’ll hold out, sir—you’ll see!”

  “We’ll see, sure enough, if we come there safely, but I think we shall be under fire. It will be your task, Delancey, to exercise our men at their guns. We are glad to have someone aboard who has served in a king’s ship.”

  “Aye, aye, sir, I’ll do my best. But I could wish that our destination were not so generally known. The enemy will hear that we are on the way.”

  “That’s very like. But we’ll sail in convoy, mind you, under escort. We’ll not be told to run the blockade as a single ship, not with the cargo we have. We’ll sail with a fleet.”

  As the weeks of preparation went by Richard sought to gather news of Gibraltar but without much success. There had been a bombardment and the town, he heard, was in ruins. There had been many casualties from scurvy. The Brilliant was there, a frigate commanded by Captain Curtis. There was no news of fighting, though, but only of preparation on either side. Work went on in the Vernon, meanwhile, every effort being made to ensure that the gunboats would be easy to reassemble. By January 1782 the loading was finished and the ship made ready for sea. She finally sailed for Spithead where she arrived in mid-February amidst a snowstorm. The captain was then told that the Vernon would not be sailing in convoy but would be escorted by the frigate Success commanded by Captain Poole. She was also to be joined by Lieutenant-Colonel Gledstanes of the 72nd Regiment and other officers together with a number of recruits. Overcrowding was inevitable but Richard welcomed a plan which would give him more men to man the guns. By the date of sailing from Spithead (11 March) he felt that the Vernon was an opponent to be reckoned with. The voyage across the Bay of Biscay was uneventful but there was every likelihood of meeting the enemy in approaching the Straits and there, sure enough, a Spanish frigate was awaiting them, the San Catalina (40 guns). The Success went to meet her with the Vernon in her wake.

  So far Richard’s main responsibility was for training the gun-crews but he now found that his action station would be on the quarterdeck. Captain Mansell needed his advice. “You stay with me, Mr Delancey, and tell me what the signals mean.” No signals were
made, in fact, but Richard had some idea of naval tactics and it was he who took the Vernon into action. It was a winter afternoon with a threatening sky and a failing light. Seeing the approach of two opponents, the Spaniard went about and shortened sail, allowing the Success to draw level on her port beam. Both ships opened fire and maintained the action for nearly half an hour. By then the Vernon was able to intervene and Mansell, on Richard’s advice, raked the Spaniard with one broadside and then took up a position on her starboard (and windward) beam, engaging her with both cannon and small arms. This was Richard’s first experience of a proper naval action and he was surprised to find that he was more interested than frightened. Caught between her two opponents the Spanish frigate was evidently sustaining both damage and casualties. Her fire slackened and her guns still in action were firing too high. One of these brought down the Vernon’s fore-topsail yard, cluttering the forecastle with broken timber, torn canvas and tangled cordage. Seeing his forward guns out of action, Mansell told Delancey to help the first mate clear the wreckage. Richard ran forward with an axe and had soon freed two of the guns. As he turned with some helpers towards a third he suddenly felt a blow like one from a sledge-hammer. His left arm was numb, his axe had gone and his shirt was soaked in blood. He was only half-conscious when he was carried below and then fainted, luckily being unconscious when the surgeon extracted the musket ball from his upper left arm.

  When he came to, perhaps an hour later, Mansell was looking down at him.

  “What has happened, sir?” he asked.

  “The Spanish frigate has struck her colours. Two other frigates have been sighted and the captured ship is being burnt. We may be in battle again presently but it is dark now and we have to avoid the enemy.”

  This was the end of the action so far as the Vernon was concerned, for the two frigates sighted turned out to be British, the Cerberus and Apollo escorting four transports. All reached Gibraltar in safety and Richard was among those taken ashore to hospital. Delirious at first and then semi-conscious, Richard was on the danger list for several weeks. When he was well enough to receive a visitor it was Ian Maitland who stood by his bedside, accompanied by Lieutenant-Colonel Gledstanes and his adjutant. As a background to their conversation and to the whole process of Richard’s recovery was a distant grumbling of gunfire, lessening at times but never dwindling to silence. Maitland, he realised, was asking him how he did.

  “I’m feeling better but still weak,” he replied.

  “I don’t wonder at that,” said Maitland. “You lost a lot of blood between the forecastle and the steerage. You are lucky to be alive.”

  “I’d be luckier, sir, to have escaped the bullet.”

  “That would have been a miracle,” said the colonel.

  “Why?”

  “Because you were not covered by fire from your own side. The fall of the fore-topsail yard had left the forecastle without a single marksman. One or two had been wounded and the rest were pinned under the wreckage. For ten minutes the opposing enemy marines—those on their forecastle—had mere target practice.”

  “A painful lesson!”

  “You are recovering, though.”

  “So the surgeon tells me but there is still some pain and irritation. He thought I had tetanus but it seems I haven’t. The wound is infected, though, and has hardly begun to heal. But how about the Vernon? Are the gunboats put together?”

  Richard heard the news on this and on later visits paid to the hospital by his messmates and he soon understood that the Vernon was nearly ready to sail on her return voyage. On 5 May Captain Mansell paid a final visit and told him that the ship must sail without him.

  “I thought of listing you as a discharged invalid but the surgeon is against it. He thinks you had best remain ashore here and embark for England when recovered. So I have come to say goodbye, and also to thank you for your good services.

  The capture of the San Catalina was due, in part, to you.”

  “A pity she was destroyed, sir.”

  “That was Captain Poole’s mistake. He feared that she would be retaken.”

  “It’s very easy to be wise now, sir.”

  “Very true. There would have been no prize-money for us in any case.”

  The Vernon sailed on the 7th, leaving Richard still in the naval hospital, which overlooked Rosia Bay and was outside the area of the Rock which was actually under fire. When allowed to get up, Richard could see from his window the Bay of Gibraltar with Algeçiras on the far side—the centre, as he knew, of enemy preparations. In the foreground and to his right was the New Mole with the frigate Brilliant alongside. At the back of the hospital was the tented camp to which the troops had withdrawn from their damaged barracks at the exposed end of the town. His was a room for three but the other two beds were at first unoccupied, many of the wounded having been sent home to England. Soon after the Vernon had sailed, there was brought in Ensign Rogers of the 73rd, crippled by a leg wound but well able to tell Richard about the progress of the siege. The present gunfire was desultory, he explained, and those who had been through the real bombardment were tending to ignore it. That was how he himself had been wounded. The enemy preparations were all centred upon a coming assault to be made, it was said, with shipping.

  “I have been watching every day with a spyglass, counting the tents and the ships. They are preparing their big effort for sometime in the summer. The present cannonade is mere routine.”

  However trivial, the enemy’s fire was not wholly ineffective.

  A few days later the hospital shook under the impact of a violent explosion and news came that an enemy shell had exploded the magazine of the Princess Anne’s battery. As from that time the cannonade intensified but died away again at sunset. In the meanwhile another wounded officer was brought in, this time a naval lieutenant called Moodie of the Porcupine. He had been visiting the Princess Anne’s battery and had two ribs broken in falling from the level of the platform.

  “We were lucky,” he said, “that t’other magazine didn’t go. It was a damn near thing, I tell you. If the whole of Willis’s had gone, the enemy might have risked an attack on the Land Port.”

  “But what about Princess Anne’s battery?” asked Rogers. “Is that out of action, sir?”

  “No, the guns are still mounted. They’ll open fire as soon as they have powder again, warning the enemy not to try any tricks.”

  It transpired in conversation that Moodie had been serving with the gunboats, the last of which had been launched on 4 June. Richard asked whether the gunboats were proving of use, confessing his interest as one who had helped bring them out.

  “Well, you know, I suppose, what a gunboat is: an oared craft something larger than a ship’s longboat and armed with a twenty-four-pounder. Ours each have a crew of 21—eight oars a-side, three men forward and two in the sternsheets. There’s a lugsail for use on occasion, the enemy craft having a lateen instead. I have been commanding a division of them numbering five. Given an enemy ship becalmed we might rake her from a position dead aft or forward. But there are more days when we daren’t put to sea at all. We’d make a small target in action but could be sunk by a single round. We’ve done nothing much yet except to scare enemy gunboats, but—who knows?—we might take the enemy battering ships in flank. If we fail, for that matter, we know that the frigates could have done no better and might easily have fared worse.”

  Richard was discharged from hospital on 17 June and reported at once to Captain Roger Curtis, the senior naval officer.

  “So you joined the service in 1775?” said the captain, having heard the story. “You have been at sea for six years or more. Have you passed for lieutenant?”

  “No, sir.”

  “A pity. I’ll rate you then as a master’s mate, for service with the gunboats. I have a lieutenant who is wounded which leaves me with a temporary vacancy to fill.”

  Richard entered the Brilliant’s junior mess with a new sensation of seniority. He was filling a lieuten
ant’s vacancy. He was nearer than he had ever been to commissioned rank. Had he really served the minimum six years? Did his time in the Vernon count? But if Captain Curtis thought him eligible, who was he to doubt it? One thing he could not do was to pass his examination. That required three post-captains and Gibraltar—as Richard could see for himself—had exactly two. There was the Brilliant and there was the Porcupine, two post-ships, and there was the cutter Speedwell, a lieutenant’s command. There was nothing more and nothing likely to arrive. So Richard plunged into his work with the gunboats and found himself fully occupied in rowing guard under a hot sun. On his second evening aboard the frigate he dined with Captain Curtis and came to know him a little better.

  “We are unfortunate,” said the captain over his wine, “in being denied the chance of battle at sea. But we must make the most of the opportunities we have. For understanding siege warfare we are well placed indeed and I have come to boast some knowledge of the science. You will find, Mr Delancey, that I encourage my officers to visit the forward posts. We even provided a detachment to take part in the sortie of 27 November—and very well they did, Siward, eh? We have had casualties as a result but have gained in experience. I should hate to feel afterwards that we had merely wasted our time.”

  Richard took the hint and made friends, when off duty, with Ensign Owen of the 29th and an old engineer officer called Hamilton. Owen, who had taken part in the sortie, was able to point out the line of attack and the parallel which the attackers had destroyed. Hamilton took him over the defensive works and lent him a book in which all the technical terms were explained. What is a demi-bastion, a battery en barbet, a gabion, a half-chandelier, a merlon, a caisson, a fascine, an epaulement, a traverse, a redoubt? All these terms he mastered and memorised. He was also shown the iron gratings which were being added to the northern batteries and on which the shot used could be heated before use. So far no red-hot shot had been fired but the artillerymen were exercised in the drill for using them, the device being reserved for the crisis of the siege. He was surprised to find that the enemy’s strength and position was known in the greatest detail, the result of deserters coming over the neutral ground at night. Owen explained, however, that all the fortress’s defensive works were as well known to the enemy from men who had deserted to them. The latest news from Spain was that the besieging army was being strengthened by the addition of twenty thousand French troops and that the threatened attack would be launched in September.