THE GLORIOUS FIRST: The first fleet action of the French Revolutionary War (The Jack Vizzard Chronicles Book 2)

by M Howard Morgan

  The right of M HOWARD MORGAN to be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published in 2014

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Copyright © 2014 M HOWARD MORGAN

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-13: 978-1499250183

  ISBN-10:1499250185

  THE

  GLORIOUS

  FIRST

  M HOWARD MORGAN

  AUTHOR’S NOTE AND ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  The Glorious First of June was a protracted and fragmented action. It is widely regarded by historians as one of the bloodiest battles of the Revolutionary War with France. It was the first major fleet action of that period and tested the Royal Navy, which had not seen a major action since the conclusion of the American War of Independence.

  The British fleet was significantly under-manned but not completely lacking in training or commitment. The French fleet too, was undermanned and in the main, motivated partly by Revolutionary fervour; and by the intervention of such persons as the deputy of the National Convention, Jean-Bon Saint Andrè, who must have been a major irritation to the French admiral.

  Study of the logs and journals is revealing; some myths are severely dented, such as that of French ships always firing into the rigging and sails of British ships. Villaret Joyeuse, commanding the French fleet, demonstrated, for me certainly, sound tactical and strategic management of his force.

  The French lower deck men had recently mutinied and paid the price. Hundreds of officers and men were executed, incarcerated in prison or banished from the Republic. Junior officers were promoted to positions of seniority, merchant captains and even enthusiastic civilians were given command of warships. Villaret Joyeuse managed to avoid battle when he had to, almost certainly controlled the battlefield as well as Earl Howe, but most importantly, from the French perspective, ensured the safe arrival of the enormous grain convoy into Brest.

  Earl Howe was undoubtedly a fine, outstanding officer and deserving of the praise that came his way. He was an inspiring, innovative leader and an example to many officers who came after him, including a young rising star of the Royal Navy, one Horatio Nelson. Howe declined any further honours from King George, which may be a measure of the man.

  Readers who wish to know more can do no better than to read the excellent work of Sam Willis, ‘The Glorious First of June.’ Dr Willis is to my mind an outstanding historian of the Great Age of Sail.

  This book is fiction and is the second to feature Lieutenant Jack Vizzard of the Corps of Marines. Charles Hamilton Smith did exist. He was a talented artist, artilleryman and spy. His work included experiments with camouflage, nearly a hundred years before the British recognised the need. Lieutenant Laponetière also existed and acquired fame as the Captain of Pickle, the sloop that brought the news of Trafalgar to England in 1805. I ‘borrowed’ both characters and who knows, they may have been involved in such as I have invented. A third book is in progress.

  CHAPTER 1

  The sense of foreboding he felt this morning really did not agree with Lieutenant Jack Vizzard. He could usually be found fully awake and busy preparing breakfast shortly after the dawn cast its watery light over Portsmouth Town, but this morning his head ached, and his mouth was as dry as a ship’s biscuit. He felt morose, which was unlike him and something more; he was inexplicably fearful. Too much port wine he decided; it was a weakness of his. And he was at risk of being late for his appointment.

  He lit the candle and splashed ice-cold water on his face shaking off the spectre of dread, blowing through his hands as the kettle sang over the blackened kitchen stove, shared with another family. The rooms in the small, terraced house at 17 Great Southsea Street were furnished but sparingly by their landlord and Jack and Mary had slowly added to the home, but he did, occasionally, wish for the comforts of his father’s home, Lampern House, in Gloucestershire.

  Pouring half the contents of the kettle into the bowl, he quickly lathered some soap with the tarnished, silver brush and scraped the stubble from his chin with a practiced hand. The blade was quite keen and in good condition, for which he was grateful. Taking a pause he stared at his face in the highly polished silver mirror through veined eyes. He could never do so without thinking of the night, so long ago, when he had killed a man. It was the face of a murderer. He silently spoke those words to himself every morning. One evil man and how it had changed his life. He should have shot the judge too, but then he would have hanged. He was grateful to the goddess Fortuna’s indulgence for his escape from a scaffold.

  Jack Vizzard was thought a handsome man by many, not least his wife. Six feet and one inch tall; well above-average height. The dark hair, curling upwards at the collar, so much like his mother’s, was like the face; strong, but with a soft glow, always coloured by the sun. A modest nose, neither aquiline nor concave, it served to inform others of his imposing, confident personality. Full, wide lips graced a strong jawline and the eyes, a hybrid green and bright blue, were this morning slightly blood-shot, evidence of the excessive consumption of the previous night.

  Taking a cloth from the side-cupboard, he dried his face, then reached for the teapot, placing two spoons of the rich, aromatic tea Mary so enjoyed, into the pot – part of a set gifted to them by the parish of Woodchester on their return to Gloucestershire after the tiring voyage from New Holland. He followed with the remainder of the boiled water, stirring the leaves thoroughly, as Mary insisted he did. The aroma of the tea floated into his nostrils, aiding his recovery.

  Reaching for two of the decorated cups from the sideboard, he almost forgot the saucers, placing them with care on a tray he stepped quickly along the still-darkened hallway, to the pair of rooms which had been a drain on his pay. Now however, the new lodging allowance of six shillings a week covered the expense, but rents were again rising. The house was a marked difference from the rough log-hut overlooking Cockle Bay in Sydney Town and, in stark contrast, it was luxurious accommodation.

  As he entered the bedroom, Mary raised herself onto her right elbow, rubbing sleep from her eyes, and smiled.

  ‘I do so miss you when you are late home. At what time did you return last night?’

  She accepted the tea with her left hand, carefully edging herself upright, so as to drink it. She plumped and pushed a pillow against the headboard for support.

  ‘Did I disturb you my dearest?’ Jack sat on the edge of the bed, placing his own cup on the floor, as he searched for his boots. ‘As best I could tell, it must have been approaching four bells of the middle watch. The coach was late – delayed at West Meon with a lame horse. I had to walk across the common – not the easiest of tasks with last night’s fog. Yes, it was probably nearly two of the clock before I opened the door.’

  He found the boots, one under the bed, its partner beneath the worn spoon-back chair and pulled them on with ease, the leather supple and thoroughly polished.

  ‘You were snoring, and I had no desire to disturb you,’ said Jack, ‘although I did wish for a peg to stop the infernal noise you were making!’

  Mary
gave him the look she reserved for the times when she was mildly annoyed at his language, raising her right eyebrow with obvious disdain. Her hair hung about her face, with natural waves, a soft copper shroud, framing a small face, with high and obvious cheekbones. Her smooth skin, unmarked by any blemish, glowed with health in the soft candlelight. Above those cheeks, large and bright eyes of hazel, with minute flecks of the palest green, looked on the world with interest and intelligence. Her mouth, wide and with full lips, opened, revealing straight, clean teeth.

  ‘I do not believe a word of it, Jack Vizzard I do not snore, unlike the man to whom I am married!’

  She drank fully from the small cup, placing the empty vessel carefully onto the saucer. ‘However, I do feel I may be contracting some ailment. Yesterday I felt as though all my bones were aching, and my throat does feel exceedingly tender this morning. Thank you for the tea.’ She sipped from the cup, a sigh of pleasure coming from her throat.

  ‘I have the unenviable task of reporting to the dockyard this morning.’ Jack reached for his uniform coat. ‘The commandant believes I may be required to embark for duty aboard one of the fleet’s 74’s; that is a third rate, my dear. His Lordship, Earl Howe has requested more marines than we are able to muster. He has already demanded men from the infantry, and it seems I may have an appointment to one of the Channel fleet; the Brunswick it is thought.’ He buckled his sword belt. ‘Am I presentable d’you think, my dear?’

  Mary Vizzard fixed a smile on her face, distressed at this news, turning away from him in order to hide her emotions she slipped from under the heavy blankets covering the bed, and embraced her husband. The Channel Fleet; it could be worse she thought. The service could send her dear man anywhere, leaving her alone for years. Detached to Richard, Earl Howe’s fleet he would not be on the far side of the world. He would surely be in a position to return to Portsmouth once in a while.

  ‘As ever, you appear the model marine, my love.’ A street cloak, protection against the early morning cold, draped over her shoulders, she made her way to the kitchen said, ‘Have you eaten, Jack? I can readily have something for you to eat.’

  ‘I have so little time, dear. I am due at the Navy Office at eight o’ clock, and it is now well after seven, so says the clock in the hall. I must be on my way.’ He followed her from the bedroom.

  ‘Oh, well then be sure to find something for luncheon, please. You have yet to fully recover your strength. I know your duty in New South Wales took a greater toll on you than ever you care to admit.’

  Making small talk disguised her feelings, concealed the fear in the attic of her mind. Idle conversation was not one of her strengths, preferring directness, and honest open talk to mere chat for its own sake. Of late, she had been reflecting on their life and the inner desire he failed to disguise; eager again for something more than the routine of garrison life. She was not, should not be, surprised at the enthusiasm barely concealed in his eyes.

  Vizzard smiled again his mind recalling those desperate days. He had lost a good measure of his muscular frame, and though his appetite was always healthy, he had yet to return to his former physique. His frame appeared wiry, muscular, but lacking the full strength of earlier years and the thick, dark hair of his Oxford days had thinned and lost something of its gloss. Barrack duty had made a poor restorative and his regular pleas for active duty were declined by his superiors so frequently he had convinced himself his conduct in New South Wales had not been seen as ‘exemplary’ as Governor Phillip had reported to the Colonial Office and to the Commandant of the Corps.

  ‘Do not fear m’lady, I dined well enough yesterday, and may well do so again today. What plans do you have for the day, Mary?’

  Mary had reached the kitchen and found a solitary egg and the remains of a leg of ham in the small larder. She added some coals to the sleeping stove with a pair of tongs and placed a heavy, iron pan onto the top.

  ‘I intend to take coffee with Helena Squires. It was last week when she sent the invitation, do you not recall, dearest?’

  Placing the meat onto a hot pan, she added some bread and a knob of butter, and poured milk from a pitcher into a pewter cup. Jack wore a puzzled expression

  ‘She wishes to meet more of the wives of the battalion officers, and gives me to understand there may be several ladies attending this morning. Be gone Lieutenant, before I ruin this. I wish to prepare and have much to do.’

  Jack looked deep into her eyes, in wonder and pride. Her natural beauty had captured his heart near on eight years ago, but how much she had changed since; it was a lifetime ago. Mary, the coy, simple country girl, whose one ambition had been, was still, to become better educated, to improve her station in life. His heart swelled.

  ‘Give Annie a kiss for me when she awakes, my dear wife.’

  Jack and Mary Vizzard had adopted a girl, Annie, the daughter of a convict friend of Mary’s. The child had never known her mother, Lizzie Parker, who had died in Sydney Town shortly after arriving in the new colony, some five years past. A sweet-natured pretty child, Jack adored her, but privately longed for a son of his own. He had not discussed this desire with his wife, believing time would bring his wish to fruition. They had lost a baby in New South Wales, a pain both still felt, but never discussed.

  Mary kissed him lightly on the left cheek, and he left, pondering absently on why the Major’s wife should be arranging such social occasions. Major George Squires had recently taken command of the right wing parade company, following a prolonged lack of a field officer for the duty. He impressed Jack at once with his zeal and energy, and forward thinking. Squires was the man with whom Jack had an appointment, at the naval dockyard.

  * * * * *

  It was a good twenty-minute walk or more to the Victory Gate at the entrance to His Majesty’s Dockyard, and he set off at a brisk pace, his mind working on the prospect of a sea-going appointment, after the tedious barrack duty. The cold, bright January air lanced his lungs sending small clouds of vapour from his mouth as he strode across the common; after ten minutes he was sweating, the linen shirt glued to his back. The belief of many officers who had served with the Corps the three years in New Holland would lead to widespread promotion, had proved misplaced. Jack still wore the epaulette of a second lieutenant, but the chance of employment on a ship of the line did promise elevation to lieutenant. Why else had he received the summons to attend on Major Squires at the office of the Navy Board? As the appointed hour approached he felt a growing excitement.

  A guard at the gate proffered a salute executed in too casual a manner as he passed by the Porter’s House. He was of a mind to reprimand the man for his disrespect, but decided against it. He merely glared at the man, who froze, understanding his mistake.

  He made his way to the Navy Board office, and was gratified to see he was on time. Major Squires was intolerant of unpunctuality in his officers. He introduced himself to the clerk and was ushered along a short, whitewashed windowless corridor, to the Port Admiral’s office.

  Major George Squires was a stocky man, a little less than six feet tall, with an untidy mop of black, wiry hair, greying at the temples, and inclined to stoop. A smile, not evident in his grey eyes, flicked across his face as he rose to his feet when Jack entered the large, airy, sunlit room, the sudden brightness causing him to squint, the better to see the room and its occupants.

  ‘There you are, Vizzard. Punctual as I expected.’ He extended a hand in welcome, which Jack, unsettled for a moment at the familiarity, grasped firmly. ‘Captain Powlett, I present Second Lieutenant Vizzard, one of my officers, and lately returned from New Holland.’

  The Naval officer seated at the large mahogany desk waved a hand in welcome, but did not rise from his chair.

  ‘Please, do take a seat Mister Vizzard. I am delighted to make your acquaintance.’ Jack removed his hat, placing it under his left arm, before sitting opposite the naval officer, who glanced at a paper he was evidently studying before his arrival.

&nb
sp; ‘Snuff, gentlemen? This is a fine Spanish Prize,’ said Powlett, offering up a tortoiseshell case, declined by both marine officers he continued. ‘New Holland, heh? Must have been a damned hard commission. I have read reports and accounts of course, but would be interested in your opinion of the place.’ The back of his hand to his nose, Powlett coughed and sneezed several times, his chest wheezing. ‘But another time perhaps. I have to place a number of appointments, and Major Squires believes you may have the qualities I am seeking er… for a particular assignment.’ He looked toward the major, indicating consent. The major turned to Jack.

  ‘I received certain information and orders only yesterday, Vizzard, which cause us to advance certain plans recently discussed in London.’ Major Squires looked keenly at Jack, who returned a level gaze at his senior officer. ‘You will no doubt see it in the broadsheets later, but now the damned French have gone too far. Vizzard, they have executed their king!’

  Jack jerked back at the news as though struck in the face. All of England had watched nervously as France’s revolution had become more strident, more demanding, ever more violent. The food riots had attracted little publicity, but the massacres in Paris last September had caused great anxiety and concern in government quarters. The French war against Austria demonstrated the First Republic’s expansionist plans, as had the occupation of Belgium only last November. Jack was aghast, realising the French seemed set on a policy of aggression against all Europe.

  ‘This is terrible news, sir,’ he replied. ‘How are we to respond to it?’

  His mind raced. Why was he here? He knew Prime Minister Pitt’s policy of neutrality reflected the feeling France was set on a path of destruction; for itself and other nations of Europe, and could no longer remain aloof from the events across the English Channel. It would surely mean expansion of the Corps, and could only lead to promotion and more adventurous service than the routine of barrack life. He felt invigorated, as though his body had instantly received an influx of purpose.