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

by M Howard Morgan

  Britain had a weak, small, and ill-managed army. Pitt, the King’s Minister, had resolved Britain’s role could only be financial and naval. By contrast, the Navy was well supplied; with ships, dockyards, munitions, supplies of victuals and a trained and a disciplined force of men. Indeed manpower was the one resource lacking for the wartime Navy; men to crew the ships, and men to fight them.

  The Corps of Marines would need expanding. The force was half-trained and under strength, but the heart of the Corps was sound. Tired as he was Souter felt proud. Pride in the Corps and filled with a sense of purpose, conscious of the conflict he realised was coming.

  Colonel William Souter displayed the evidence of a sleepless night, as indeed had been the case, these thoughts, and more, running through his mind. He had been in conference with two of his majors until midnight, and then he had called for the French servant, who had been sleeping in barracks under guard. He had questioned him carefully and shrewdly for two hours. Then he had written a long despatch to the Admiralty, sending it in the care of a junior lieutenant before dawn.

  He felt his chin, and noted the rough, grey stubble which covered his face. His eyes were red and sore, and his bones ached. The little hair he had left was thin, lank and in parts quite white and now was dishevelled. He stood and stretched his aching limbs and called for his servant, who slept in a bunk in the adjacent office.

  ‘Wilkins, where are you man? Wilkins, I have dire need of some coffee’ he growled. ‘Please arrange it before I expire.’

  The unfortunate marine, a veteran of nearly twenty years’ service, swung his legs over the side of the bunk, rubbed his eyes and shivered with the cold. ‘Not my fault you bin up all night’, he muttered under his breath, ‘some of us `ave been tryin’ to sleep.’ He slouched away to roast and grind some beans to make the brew the Colonel always demanded in the morning.

  Colonel Souter splashed some cold water from a bowl onto his face, starting at the sudden shock. He quickly honed his razor on a leather strop, and painfully scraped the stubble from his face, wincing as the edge pulled at the bristles. His wife always left a bottle of lavender water in his private room and he dabbed some on his cheeks and chin.

  He felt better, but desperately wanted coffee. At least now he had a good idea of the demands to be made of young Vizzard and his men. God in heaven, we are at war again. He would see the men away, but then he would have to complete the packing and arrange for the transport of his effects to Chatham. He should have been there yesterday, he thought. No use worrying about it now. This order from the Admiralty, no less a person than the First Lord himself, and had to take precedence. He had a glimmer of understanding of the importance of the task. We know now some move is afoot, but where, when and by whom, and in what strength; only their Lordship’s agent in France knew the answers to some of those questions. Vizzard must get the government’s man back to England, and damned fast.

  Wilkins shuffled in with a pot of steaming coffee. To assist Colonel Souter reach a good humour, he had buttered some toast adding the strong Scottish orange jam he so favoured. Bitter stuff, thought Wilkins.

  ‘At last, man. Thank you.’ Souter’s humour returned with the aroma in his nostrils. He took the pot and poured the steaming contents into a dented and tarnished pewter mug which was of great personal value Adding a generous measure of cold milk, he drank the contents without pause ‘Pour me another will you please, Wilkins,’ he requested, biting into the toast, savouring the bittersweet taste of the conserve, liberally spread on the bread.

  He read again the clerk’s copy of the despatch sent two hours ago. With luck, it will be with the First Lord by supper. Light crept into the office as the weak, wintry sun rose over Spithead, slowly bringing some degree of warmth to the cold room.

  Jack Vizzard knocked and entered the room, hesitating just long enough for Colonel Souter to call giving consent.

  ‘Mister Vizzard, good morning to you. I trust you slept well?’

  Jack had not. His mind too full of thoughts of the forthcoming day; and of the passionate farewell Mary and he had made during the night. He had lain still beside her as she slowly subsided into troubled sleep, to face her own nightmares. He had dressed quietly and quickly, and left Great Southsea Street before dawn, walking slowly through the dark deserted streets.

  ‘Thank you, sir. Well enough I believe, in the circumstances. Is Major Squires to join us, sir?’ He pulled the cloak from his shoulders, hanging it on a stand by the door.

  ‘Help yourself to some coffee, Vizzard. I know you enjoy it. No, he is not expected here today – said he had to attend to some matter in Winchester. I spent much of last evening conferring with him. I asked him for some time with you alone, as I wish to brief you personally.’

  Colonel Souter motioned Jack to a seat, and proffered the copy despatch for him to read and as he read, his eyes slowly widened.

  ‘I see you comprehend our difficulty then.’ Colonel Souter smiled wryly. ‘It is thus vital to our cause this agent of their Lordships’ be found and brought to London. No price is too high to pay to ensure his safety.’ He paused to allow the full effect of his words to be appreciated. ‘No price, Vizzard; I speak plain. Is all clear to you?’

  ‘Sir, yes I understand.’ His brain absorbed the implication. He understood all too clearly and suppressed the sensation of ice along his spine.

  Souter sighed. ‘I am glad you do. We have learned the French will be on the move soon, but desperately need to know where and when they intend to strike, and in what numbers. The information, if we can get it, will be of enormous value to our country and our allies.’

  He pulled a rolled chart from a rack and spread it out, weighting the edges with a brass paperweight, and a heavy book; Vizzard couldn’t determine the title. ‘It has been decided the Navy will land you here.’ He pointed to a place on the chart, a short distance from the port mouth of Dieppe. ‘From there you will move along the Rue de Chastes to St Jacques Church. He will make himself known to you, but you should be looking for a young man, likely to be in uniform. He will be wearing a lily, but I understand you know this.’

  Souter smiled benignly. He lit his first pipe of the day, a marbled clay pipe inherited from his father, filling the room with clouds of aromatic smoke, and coughing briefly as the tobacco caught his lungs.

  ‘Now, Vizzard, this man’s servant, a rather sour-faced man, perceptibly loyal to his master, tells me his master’s identity and possibly his intent, has been discovered by The Committee for Public Safety, which is what passes for the ruling body in France these days; little more than thugs and murderers, in my book.’ He sucked on the pipe, savouring the flavour. ‘The man is on the run, and hunted. We have to find him first. We have a fast cutter to take you to Dieppe, and by all I hear a good man to command her. Once you are ashore, the Navy will retire to a safe place and return exactly at mid-night. You must signal seaward, with three, long green flashes. Two lanterns will be with your party.’ Souter sneezed, as smoke entered his nostrils. ‘The Navy will reply with five white flashes. At which point, Vizzard, you will be on the beach, with our man, ready to embark. Is all clear?’ Jack nodded and opened his mouth to speak. Souter continued without waiting for a reply. ‘The Navy will not wait if you do not appear, but they will return the following night, again at precisely twelve of the clock. Same signals to be applied. If you are not on the beach, they have orders to assume you have either been captured or worse, and to return immediately to Portsmouth.’

  He poured another coffee, and rested his elbows on the table. ‘Now, some good news for you. The fellow’s servant knows Dieppe well. Grew up there it seems. He will take you to the rendezvous, and back to the beach. Be wary, Vizzard. Who knows with a Frenchie, eh? Fellow seems bona fide, but… well, just be careful and keep your wits sharp!’

  Lieutenant Varlo entered, florid of face, as though he had run a dozen miles in as many minutes. ‘Good morning, sir. I have a message from a Captain Powlett. The wind is wester
ly and a good, steady breeze. He would like your party to be at the sally port by eleven o’ clock at the latest. He does not wish to lose this breeze so I have sent a runner to confirm our lads will be there. Do you… er have any orders for me, sir? I would be honoured to have the command of the…’

  ‘No, not this time, Varlo, this is a matter for Lieutenant Vizzard only. The fewer who know of the detail of this enterprise the happier I will be. My orders are very explicit; only the officer commanding, that is to say I, and the officer leading the patrol are the only ones to know of its nature and purpose. None of the company commanders are privy to the details. Is all ready, Mister Vizzard?’

  ‘I arranged matters with Sergeant Packer last evening. With your leave Colonel, I will go and collect him and the men.’ He stood.

  The Colonel extended his hand. ‘Good luck, Vizzard. Remember my words. God speed to you.’ Souter strode through to another room calling for his servant.

  ‘I will come with you, Vizzard. See you off, if you like’, said Varlo, clapping him on the shoulder. ‘Have to say though I would rather be commanding this expedition in your place.’

  ‘I am curious as to the decision to give me the task, Matthew; but Major Squires and the Colonel have been adamant the honour is mine. It also means the responsibility, should I fail, is mine too. Junior lieutenants are expendable, you know.’

  They left the Colonel’s office and found Sergeant Packer inspecting a line of men on the parade ground. Joe Packer turned to face them and threw a smart salute, directed more to Captain Varlo than to Jack.

  ‘Good mornin’ sirs. The men are ready, sir. I’ve spoken with the quartermaster and our equipment has been loaded onto yonder cart, sir. All as you directed, Mister Vizzard.’

  As he spoke, the Corporal of the Guard, accompanied by a private, marched from the barracks, a tall, gangling, miserable looking man walking between them. He was dressed in black breeches, tucked into black calf-length boots, with a dark brown coat over a faded, crumpled white shirt. His head was covered with a simple, dusty stack hat in which a white lily wilted.

  ‘This will be your guide, Vizzard.’ Varlo stepped forward to dismiss the guard, and welcomed the Frenchman with a cold stare. ‘Good morning to you, Monsieur Bontecou. Trust you have rested. I have the honour to present Lieutenant Vizzard, the officer commanding this expedition, and charged with escorting your master. Do you understand me?’

  The Frenchman turned his head a fraction to look at Jack. ‘I `ope he is a good soldier, Monsieur Captain.’

  His voice and his words carried a meaning, and Jack felt a moment of concern. He spoke English, which Jack was pleased to learn, because he had never fully mastered French.

  ‘Oui m’sieur. Oui. Monsieur Vizzard est l'un de nos meilleurs officiers,’ replied Captain Varlo.

  ‘Je suis enchanté pour entendre ce commandant. Il peut devoir être. La France est un endroit dangereux à être.’

  The narrowed eyes of M Bontecou looked across at Jack. His manner was patently not unfriendly, simply natural suspicion. Jack understood the man was trying to make the measure of him.

  Joseph Packer stood next to Jack, his face inscrutable. ‘Beg pardon Mister Vizzard, but what are they talkin’ about?’ he growled softly from the side of his mouth.

  Jack replied, without taking his eyes off Bontecou. ‘As best I can understand, Joe, he hopes we are up to the job of rescuing his master.’

  ‘Cheeky bastard,’ Joe Packer grunted.

  ‘Monsieur Bontecou.’ Jack addressed him directly. ‘Your knowledge of our English language plainly is very good. How did you come to learn our language, sir?’

  ‘Ah, Lieutenant, I spent some years here, in London, when I taught at Westminster. I am a teacher, by profession. Now I serve a good man – also I think a teacher. He has been hunted by our enemies.’ Bontecou extended his hand. Hesitatingly, Jack took it, and gave the Frenchman a firm handshake. ‘You will find my master a good and honourable man, Lieutenant. I trust you to find him protect him and return us both safely to Britain, yes.’

  ‘I will do my duty monsieur,’ Jack snapped. ‘I trust you to do yours, sir.’

  Jack Vizzard strode across the parade ground to examine the contents of the cart, which Sergeant Packer had prepared with the assistance of the Quartermaster. Casting his eyes over the neatly arranged stores, he was gratified to see a quantity of dark canvas coats were included after all There were food rations for three days for the men; sacks of bread and biscuit, a barrel of beef, two of water and an ample supply of musket balls and powder.

  ‘Sergeant Packer, I wish to examine the men. Who have we got for this outing?’

  ‘The best I could scrounge from the garrison sir, but don’t you go tellin’ `em now.’ Packer grinned. Most of `em you will know, but some are from Major Walters’ company. The Colonel’s orders sir.’ He explained at Jack’s puzzled expression. ‘He wanted you to have trusted men, sir.’

  Jack walked slowly along the line of assembled men, Sergeant Packer with him.

  ‘Tom! What in God’s name are you doing here?’

  His question directed at young Tom Clutterbuck, his servant and fellow conspirator in the death of the Reverend Barnwell, all those years ago.

  The youth, now an experienced man of twenty-three, returned his officer’s gaze equably and spoke with acquired confidence, ‘Sir, Sergeant Packer sought to discourage me, but if you are off looking for a fight, well I have a duty to be with you and watch your back, sir.’

  ‘A fight is the last thing I am seeking, Tom, but so be it. I am content you are with us.’

  He spoke briefly to other men from his own company, pausing when he came upon an unfamiliar face.

  ‘Davies, Paul, private sir.’ The man slapped his musket to the present position.

  ‘Welcome then, Davies. How come you to the Corps?’

  The man stood straight and still and recounted how he had been in the 55th regiment of Foot, but had transferred in December, hoping for a more active role.

  Jack progressed along the line, similarly speaking to several men, those he did not know, trying to measure their worth, but wanting to know who they were. It was of importance to him, to know his men. They too, found it of value, if a little unusual. Had Jack been aware of it, one of the men selected was Major Squires’ orderly. He had volunteered – indeed the Major had pleaded with the Colonel for his selection.

  Having completed his inspection, Lieutenant Vizzard concluded he and his men were ready to proceed. He saluted Captain Varlo, and ordered Sergeant Packer to start the men on the short march to the dockyard. ‘Good luck, Vizzard. Wish I was coming with you. God speed your safe return my lad.’ Varlo turned and walked back to the adjutant’s office.

  Jack Vizzard watched him for a moment, noting his limp and wondered how Varlo had been injured. Making a mental note to ask him one day he led his men on a steady march to the sally port, small clouds of breath marking their march, where a young midshipman awaited with a ship’s launch to transfer them to the Nimble anchored in Portsmouth harbour.

  ‘Good morning, sir. Mister Vizzard, I believe?’ The young officer addressed Jack as he approached. ‘My name is Bird, Richard Bird, sir, but I am known by all as ‘Dickie.’

  The midshipman grinned. He was of short stature, with broad shoulders, and an untidy tangle of hair, of quite the reddest hue Jack had seen. His face, browned from exposure to the sun, was peppered with a myriad of freckles. Bright green eyes sparkled with enthusiasm.

  ‘Good morning, Mister Bird. I am delighted to meet you.’ Gesturing to Joe Packer, he said, ‘This is Sergeant Joseph Packer, my right hand. You do have room for us all in your boat, I trust?’

  ‘I was told to collect two-dozen lobsters… beg your pardon sir, marines. Yes, I can take you all in one trip, have no fear. He addressed Joe Packer. ‘If you could bring `em down the steps, Sergeant, I will have my crew assist with your stores.’ He detailed two large sailors to lend a hand as Sergeant Packer orde
red two of his men to start unloading the cart.

  ‘The captain is anxious to weigh, sir. The wind favours us, but it may not last.’ Dickie Bird offered a hand as Jack stepped on board the jolly boat. ‘The crossing may be lumpy at this time of year – mind your head, sir – the tides are inconstant in the Channel.’

  The sail unfurled and Bird ordered the lines cast off, pushing the tiller over, as the wind plucked at the sail, cracking as it filled, and the small craft gathered momentum. ‘Lively with that sheet, Roberts, you lubberly bugger.’ Bird looked over his shoulder picking his course to the schooner, which came into view as they rounded a frigate. ‘There she is, sir. Pretty as a picture, is she not? Just to larboard of the 74, the topsail schooner; gaff-rigged.’

  The description was lost on Jack but he followed the middie’s outstretched arm, picking out a small vessel, some seventy feet in length, two masts and a solitary row of closed gun-ports. Jack counted them; only seven.

  As if reading his thoughts, the midshipman spoke, ‘Fourteen 12-pounders, sir. Ideal for the inshore work we have to do, Mister Vizzard. We have a crew of just thirty, so with your marines we shall feel a might crowded during the crossing.’

  Bird’s eyes narrowed as he approached, adjusting the tiller to bring the launch onto the starboard quarter of the little ship. ‘Clew up there,’ he called out, ‘smartly now.’ The two forward-most sailors hauled quickly. They each grabbed a boathook preparatory to catching the boarding ladder. As they caught on, Bird shouted again, ‘Hook on smartly now, Roberts. Here we are then, sir. Have your men get aboard first if you please. Steady now.’

  Vizzard’s men clambered uncertainly up the short rope ladder hanging from the cutter’s starboard quarter. Following Sergeant Packer he quickly reached the top, to be greeted by a good-looking man in the uniform of a Naval Lieutenant.

  ‘Welcome aboard, Mister Vizzard. John Lapenotière is my name. I am delighted to meet you.’