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

by M Howard Morgan

  The question remained unasked and Hamilton Smith noted the loaded comment.

  ‘My apologies Lieutenant, I can say nothing of my intelligence work, and it would be better for you not to know. Come, the roads are not safe and I will not be happy until I reach London. Even then, I may have enemies to confront, for I fear my information may not be entirely accepted by all. I know also, Robespierre has his agents searching for me, and they are many, Mister Vizzard.’

  The three quickened the pace as they left the town and sought the farm to the rear of which Jack had left one of his men. He called softly to Joe Packer, instructing him to collect the man with the assistance of another private, while he waited by the road. Bentecou and Hamilton Smith he instructed to hide behind a low wall, as he stood guard himself. Another section of privates appeared from the gloom, with a corporal who informed Jack the advance party were on the beach with the signal lanterns made ready.

  ‘Very well Corporal, get the lads assembled, I will be with you… ah, here’s Sergeant Packer.’ Joe Packer had carried the injured Private Hannan on his back, passing him to the other private to carry to the beach, and panting heavily from the exertion.

  ‘No sign of the French, Mister Vizzard,’ he said, ‘all the patrols have disappeared, although Jamie the Scot reckoned he `eard something a while ago. Is this our spy then?’ He nodded in the direction of Hamilton Smith, who snorted his disapproval at the familiarity.

  ‘Yes, Sergeant Packer. Now let’s have the Navy here as swiftly as possible to take us from this damned place.’

  They followed the section of marines Packer had left to watch the road, having ordered the others to the beach. As they descended the track through the dunes, Jack saw the corporal set up the signal lanterns. He checked his watch noting there were fifteen minutes before dawn, pleased the expedition was on time. Looking seawards he thought he could detect the cutter Nimble beyond the surf, about five or six cables distant, but could not be certain. Yes, there it was; the pre-arranged signal he had waited for.

  He felt rather than heard the musket ball as it whistled by his hat, striking a private on his right, shattering the man’s left shoulder and sending him screaming onto the sand. Jack cursed and pulled his weapon from his shoulder.

  ‘Embuscade! Merde!’ shouted Bentecou, rushing toward Hamilton Smith, who had drawn a pair of pistols.

  ‘Corporal, make the correct response, quickly man.’ Jack shouted to a section of men who had still to react. ‘You four men - with me now!’ More balls struck the sand as Jack raised his musket. He could now see some smoke but no clear target. Another section of four marines ran to stand to his rear as the first section fired an irregular volley towards the smoke blowing down from the dunes above them.

  Hell and damnation, thought Jack as he fired, the weapon punching his shoulder. Swiftly he reloaded, tasting the powder in his mouth, a pinch into the pan, pouring the remainder down the barrel. He pulled his ramrod clear having rammed the cartridge home and sought a target. A clump of grass moved and he fired. The bastards were waiting for us. Had been watching us all the time. They must know of our friend here.

  He heard shouts from behind and glanced back to see a ship’s boat being hauled through the surf. Thank God. If we can hold them off, we have a chance. How many of them are there?

  ‘Get them out of here, Joe’ he shouted to his sergeant, ‘leave a section and take care of him,’ he grunted in the direction of the wounded marine. ‘Get them away, Joe. Take care of Mister Hamilton Smith,’ he shouted to Packer. The rest of you stay with me!’ Vizzard again prepared his musket with practiced skill and speed, repeating the preparation faster than the men beside him. He heard the crack of weapons from the grassy dunes and, seeing a hat above the grass, fired, taking satisfaction from the scream which followed. Behind him came more shouts but he could not spare the time to look, for a ragged line of a dozen blue-coated infantry appeared from the dunes advancing steadily, evil looking bayonets fixed to their weapons. ‘Come then, you French bastards and taste British steel,’ Vizzard bellowed. ‘Stand firm with me, marines,’ he said with more calm than he felt.

  The noise of larger weapons was instantly followed by small fountains of sand as heavier shot buried themselves in sand dunes to the right and front of the French, spraying sand and seashells. John Lapenotière, with a keen eye to the scene unfolding on the beach, was throwing the weight of his guns into the skirmish. A few seconds more and then they would be on him. ‘No price too high’, the colonel’s words came to the forefront of his mind. Is this what he had in mind? Is this where I die? ‘We stand and die here, you bastards’, he yelled at his marines, ‘Not a single step backwards.’

  He stood as a ball crashed into the road beyond throwing up sparks and dust which sparkled in the first rays of dawn. The gunners were firing too high; seeking to avoid hitting his marines, he decided. He thought he heard his name called from his rear, but all was shouting and noise and confusion as he readied to parry an oncoming bayonet, the man, in the vanguard of the French attack, fell as a ball pulped his face to splintered bone and blood. There was a familiarity about the face but he had no time to think. Another man was in his place and he swung his musket clubbing the oncoming bayonet away, spearing his own musket at another blue-coated figure and reaching for his sword as more shouts came to his ears. He slashed to left and right, keeping two of the enemy at bay.

  A marine to his left fell to a sword slash, splitting open his skull as though it were no more substantial than a cheese. He had no time to even register the marine’s name as he parried another bayonet away to his right, immediately lunging at the figure behind it, and feeling it strike bone. Another marine was at his shoulder – the corporal.

  ‘They’re away, sir,’ the corporal panted. ‘The navy `as left us, sir.’ The corporal fired at another target, and from the smoke another figure advanced. With a roar, the corporal swung his musket at a short skinny figure in a blue coat, missing and taking a bayonet in the throat, his scream strangled with the blood spraying over Vizzard in a warm shower.

  Jack realised he was alone and now facing his imminent death. He glanced about him, distressed to see so many of his marines dead or seriously wounded. For each of them there were several dead Frenchman. So this was the price, ‘At any cost’. This was his death, he thought of Mary; then a familiar voice called out.

  ‘I suggest you lower your sword, Vizzard. I would hate to have you killed after such gallant resistance. You bring honour to the Corps but your part in this escapade is known to the Committee in Paris and I fancy they will wish to talk to you.’

  As Jack stared in surprise the figure of Major George Squires stood in front of him, a smirk across his face and a pistol levelled at his face.

  ‘You bloody bastard! You filthy traitor’, he panted. ‘Don’t talk to me of honour, Squires. You have most assuredly sold yours. I should have known it was all too easy. You’ve been watching and waiting all night, haven’t you?’ He tried to spit the phlegm from his mouth but couldn’t and felt a great thirst and a growing rage.

  ‘Why of course, Vizzard. This has been my enterprise from the beginning. Unfortunately that fool Souter would not confide in me else I would have intercepted you sooner. I have known of Hamilton Smith for several months and spent too much time seeking him but thanks to your resistance he has slipped away. A pity, I would have enjoyed examining his bag and ah, questioning him.’

  Jack lowered his sword, understanding he might not now be executed on this cold French beach, but would be taken to Paris as a prisoner. To be tortured no doubt, before being shot as a spy himself, or worse. He controlled his breathing and his rage with difficulty. He wanted to shoot Squires in the face, wanted to attack him and slice his head from his shoulders. The betrayal, by a British officer, was, in Jack’s mind, the ultimate crime; the man was beneath contempt and deserved to die.

  ‘I imagine you have sold your soul for French gold, Squires. I hope you consider it worthwhile, for on
my word I will see you in hell for this, you traitorous worm. I swear I will see you…’

  The butt of the musket struck him on the back of the head, instantly turning his world black as he slumped forward to the cold and bloodied sand.

  Chapter 8

  Sir Henry Vizzard sat in the old leather armchair and stared into the fire, waiting for his daughter-in-law to join him for supper. He sipped on a glass of sherry wine and looked at Caroline’s portrait, wishing as he did daily she were still alive and with him as he slipped into old age. Mary and her friend, a plain but cultured woman, had arrived at Lampern House in a hired carriage drawn by a single horse, which was now sharing the stable block with Jack’s hunter. The old man, now of rounded shoulders and aching joints, still retained his sharpness of mind. Grey hair formed a mane about his neck, which he let loose, eschewing a wig unless in court. Neave, his butler cum servant, had fussed over Mary as if he were her own father, before scuttling off to the village to pass the news to Fred George that his only daughter had made a sudden and unannounced return to the village.

  Henry had learned only the two women had warned him to expect some bad news, Jack, his favourite child, was likely as not in France on some government business, and as far as was known he was alive and well. It was cold comfort and his busy mind worked itself into knots seeking some clues. Mrs Neave, Henry could never recall her Christian name, had ushered the women upstairs to freshen and a change of clothes and was now warming the remains of a substantial stew as she had seen how tired, drawn and cold the two women were when they walked through the entrance door with Annie and shocked Sir Henry.

  Henry was a lawyer by profession, as his father had been. His great dream, his grand design had been for his two sons, George and Jack, or at least one of them, to follow him into the law. George, the eldest, had left home furtively to go to sea some nine years ago. Nothing more had been heard of him. His disappearance had come close to breaking Henry’s heart. Jack, his youngest child and second son, had always been a favourite. Jack had studied law at Oxford, at Oriel, Henry’s old college, and had been called to the bar of Middle Temple, but had forsaken the profession and taken a commission in the Corps of Marines. Sir Henry still did not understand why.

  And now he’s in trouble too, I sense it. He is hurt or taken captive. Or worse. We are at war with France once more, and Jack is on service. He shook his head and sipped from the glass by his side. Looking up above the fire, he saw her smiling down at him, those eyes she had given to their son Jack at her death; the hybrid blue and green eyes giving him reassurance, inspiration, endless love. As she had in life, so she continued in death. It is not so simple my dearest, he thought to himself. Not a simple legal knot to either untie or sever with an advocate’s surgical knife. This was an intractable Gordian knot to which no immediate solution presented itself. He felt helpless and inadequate.

  He raised his glass in silent salute to the portrait of his long-dead wife. Caroline Vizzard had died giving birth to Jack twenty-six years past. He thought of her daily, and spoke to her, silently or out loud if there were no others present. Neave heard him occasionally and shook his head.

  Neave opened the door and interrupted his reflective mind. He rose with some discomfort to stand as Mary and Helena entered the room together.

  ‘Please, stay seated, Henry dear,’ said Mary, walking briskly toward him and gently kissing his grey hair. ‘We feel so much better; do we not Helena? Tired we are, yes, but now at least with a sense of safety and security. I have left Annie asleep in my bed.’

  ‘Indeed’, said Helena, speaking properly for the first time since their arrival, ‘and I must thank you for the hospitality of your home, Sir Henry. I am most grateful for the sanctuary it offers, and when you wish, I am ready to explain our presence here.’

  ‘Please, do sit. My housekeeper will be bringing a simple supper, which I think we might take here by the comfort of the fire. The dining room can be too chill at this time of year. Neave, please see to a drink for our guests.’

  Edward Neave poured two glasses of the best of old Harvey’s sherry wine from a dark blue bottle, and proffered them to the two ladies; the first to Mary and the second to Helena. His wife, Madeline, entered with a tray bearing a large tureen holding a steaming beef stew and placed it on a small table, together with two bowls and silver spoons. A basket with chunks of bread completed the simple meal, which both Mary and Helena seized upon with as much seemliness as they could manage, although both were more than a little hungry.

  Henry watched patiently as his two visitors quickly consumed the food, trying to maintain some idle conversation on local events and people Mary would not have been aware of, but would nevertheless wish to hear, without obligation to add comment of her own.

  In the kitchen, Madeline Neave pressed her husband; ‘You must have a word with Sir Henry, love. Or I must speak to Mistress Mary. I have to know what’s going on. It must concern Master Jack, an’ I have to know he’s all right. Please love.’

  ‘I will of course, Maddie, but I think it right and proper Sir Henry hears of it first. He’ll tell us as soon as he can, be sure of it, my dear. Fred George is in Gloucester I am told and will not return afore morning and he needs to be told too, my love.’

  Following his mother’s death, Madeline Neave was taken in as Jack’s wet-nurse. She and her husband had simply stayed on at Lampern and Madeline and Jack had a bond Sir Henry well understood.

  ‘Now my dear,’ started Henry. ‘Travel weary as you both must be, you have a story to tell me, and I fully expect you are here seeking my advice. Tell me all, and I will try not to interrupt as you tell your tale, but I make no promise as it is a failing of mine.’ He smiled in the fatherly, perhaps patronising fashion he had.

  The two women looked at each other, as if the question was expected. They had agreed between them to allow Helena to speak first.

  She told her tale steadily, without embellishment, and in a considered, dispassionate manner, having realised during the journey from Portsmouth expending further emotion for her husband was a waste of energy. She knew this to be true. She recited a short history of her courtship and marriage to Major Squires, told of his absences, alluded to such facts as were within her own knowledge, including the discovery of secret coded messages, her discussion with the colonel of the Portsmouth Division and concluded by detailing her suspicions Jack Vizzard had been betrayed by her husband and was in danger.

  Henry rose unsteadily from his armchair and walked slowly towards Helena. Taking her right hand he bent low and brushed his lips against it.

  ‘I would like to thank you for making the journey to tell me this news, saddened as I am to hear it. You have shown great courage in doing so.’ Straightening up he continued. ‘Jack is my son and I am so proud of what he has done, and I hope will continue to do in the service of his country.’ He crossed to the Adam fireplace, plucked a log from the basket nearby and placed it carefully on the flames, watching as it crackled and threw up a brief shower of sparks. Looking up at the portrait of Caroline, whose eyes seemed to follow his movements, he smiled. ‘His mother would be proud too and would worry, as indeed I do, for his safety.’

  He reached down for his glass. Raising it to the two young women, ‘I thank you for coming. I will consider how best we can deal with this delicate and unhappy situation. We shall talk again in the morning.’

  Mary and Helena took the hint with good grace, and wished him a good night, before retiring to their rooms.

  Henry Vizzard sat by the fire, and pulled the rope by the wall, which was in fact quite unnecessary, as Edward and Madeline Neave entered moments after watching their guests ascend the stairs to the upper floor of the manor house.

  He looked at his two servants, and with a rising lump in his throat said, ‘It seems our boy is in trouble’.

  * * * * *

  Lieutenant Lapenotière helped haul the marines on board his cutter with his own hands so anxious was he to learn news of what h
ad happened on the beach. As soon as the last man was over the side, he called back to the midshipman, Dickie Bird.

  ‘Right, Mister Bird, as quickly as you like,’ he grunted. Take us away from this miserable coast.’ Lapenotière felt wretched. He felt sure Vizzard was alive and he wished with all his heart he could get ashore and mount a rescue. His duty was clear and, as much as he struggled with his conscience, he knew what was required of him. He must return Hamilton Smith to England.

  He stared at the French coast as slowly it slipped from view.

  * * * * *

  Lapenotière’s silver monogrammed flask was thrust into Sergeant Packer’s hand, as a surgeon’s mate cut away at his bloodied breeches.

  ‘Steady there mate, I’m not about to lose my leg, do you hear!’

  ‘How is it, Thatcher?’ Asked Lapenotière. ‘Can you deal with it man?’

  ‘It ain’t too bad sir. The ball has but grazed him badly and it has missed anything important as far as I can tell. Reckon it will heal well for a splash of brandy and a couple of decent stitches. P’r’aps cauterize it too. It’ll hurt, but he looks a tough bastard.’ The man peered deeply at the wound, and nodded to himself.

  ‘Very well then, Thatcher. Do get on with it. No leave him here, I wish to talk to him as soon as you are done. Be easy sergeant; Thatcher here is not a surgeon but knows his business well enough.’

  ‘All I can say, sir, is he better ‘cos if he don’t I’ll have his guts for m’dinner!’

  The man growled something incoherent in return and poured some neat rum over the exposed wound in his thigh. Joe Packer, a man used to pain, screamed and a stream of curses poured out; ‘You lobcock! Christ on the cross, man, that fucking well hurt.’ He was venting his frustration and anger and shame and yes, a degree of guilt. Guilt; because he was safe on a British warship though his friend and commander was either dead or captive. He felt wretched. The sailor hefted him across his shoulders as though he were no more than a sack of wool, and carried him to the tiny cabin aft. Lieutenant Laponotière followed.