Element of Chance

  An Element of Chance

  DAVID DONACHIE

  To the memory of my brother

  JOHN DONACHIE

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  About the Author

  Copyright

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  THOUGH this is a work of fiction, if you care to read The Social History of the Navy, you will find that it is, actually, based in part on a series of events which did take place.

  PROLOGUE

  SHORT OF gunners, the artillery salvoes were too weak to halt the French advance. Worse still, the smoke from the guns, billowing over the attacking infantry, obscured their movements as they approached the opposite bank of the Rivière Salée. Harassed by their officers, the redcoats, under continuous fire from skirmishers, tried to form up at the water’s edge. Forced out of its prepared position, the state of the Guadeloupe garrison was now fully exposed. More men had dropped from sickness or fatigue brought on by the West Indian climate than fell to musketry. Behind them their comrades lay in serried rows, some dead, others dying, with those who would survive now useless as combatants. An army that had been numerically superior was now outnumbered two to one. Hence this advance to the river-bank. If the enemy could be kept in the water, hampered in their movements by the tug of the current, then perhaps the situation might be saved. Fresh from Europe, the Frenchmen suffered none of the handicaps that fell on the more exposed British troops, a difficulty which had been compounded by their commander’s decision to bivouac them, prior to the battle, next to a fetid swamp.

  By the command tent, the staff officers looked towards General Trethgowan, each mentally composing the letter that would exonerate them and place the blame for any possible defeat firmly at the door of the man responsible. Advised to intercept the French invaders on the beach, he’d chosen instead to draw them into a set-piece battle. Any hint that the armies of Revolutionary France would not abide by the standard rules of warfare fell on deaf ears. Indeed, he’d scoffed at their being led by a typical example of the scum thrown up by the Revolution, an ex-baker called Victor Hugues, and promised his subordinates an easy victory over what could only be a poorly led rabble.

  Captain Elliot Haldane, liaison officer with the local militia, spoke very forcibly, in a tone that very nearly breached the bounds of military discipline, pleading that his men be allowed to attack the enemy.

  ‘They are the only troops we have, sir, who are not affected by the climate. I repeat my request that they be allowed to—’

  ‘Damn you, sir!’ shouted Trethgowan, his red face colouring an even deeper hue at such insubordination. ‘I have told you before, they are Frenchmen, and not to be trusted. Don’t be fooled by those white Bourbon uniforms and that damned Bourbon flag. As soon as they cross the river, they’ll turn coat and join our enemies.’

  ‘They despise the Revolution as much as any Englishman, sir. And being planters whose families reside on Guadeloupe, they have a great deal more to lose than us. These are the very same men who helped Admiral Jervis take the island in the first place.’

  ‘You have your orders, Captain. They are to stay on the defensive. And please ensure that they do not break and run at the first hint of danger.’

  ‘Where would they run to, General?’ said Haldane sadly. ‘This is their home.’

  The Frenchmen knew by the look on Haldane’s face that his efforts had failed. Being a local force, their discipline was not that of any regular army. So, for all the regard in which he was personally held, he was forced to suffer an abundance of abuse regarding the qualities of Trethgowan and the troops he led. He took it all silently, seeing little point in any attempt to defend his fellow countrymen to these colonists. Most odium was heaped on the general, who’d pointedly ignored any advice they’d offered. Deep down, for all their insults, they knew that the redcoats, better led and healthy, were a match for the men across the river.

  ‘I must ask you formally, Messieurs, to take up the position allotted to you, and defend this bank of the Rivière Salée to the best of your ability.’

  ‘Regardez!’ One of the colonists, who being on the seaward edge of the position had a clear view of the bay, was pointing out to sea. The joyous nature of his response was echoed by others, as they gesticulated wildly. Haldane pushed his way through the throng, his heart pounding at the sight of the man-o’-war’s billowing sails. Before the wind, she was a magnificent sight, with an admiral’s red flag streaming forward.

  ‘Monsieur de la Mery,’ cried Haldane, addressing one of the white-coated officers, ‘you are a sailor by profession. What help can we expect from that ship?’

  The captain knew by the glum look on the Frenchman’s face that the reply was not a cheering one. ‘They may arrive too late to land a force to help us.’

  ‘What about the cannon? Can they not play on the enemy flank?’

  ‘There are shoals by the river mouth that will keep them well out to sea. Unless they carry larger cannon than any frigate I know, they will lack the range.’

  The sudden rattle of the drums, coming through the smoke, alerted the defenders to the imminent assault. Haldane fought to inject a positive note into his voice. ‘I doubt our enemies know that, Monsieur. I suspect the mere sight has led them to launch a pre-emptive strike. I urge you, Messieurs, to take up your posts.’

  For all the individual nature of their enrolment, they were an efficient body of men. Emboldened by the sight of a British warship, they ran to the river-bank with a heartening degree of élan. Haldane was set to follow when de la Mery restrained him.

  ‘Captain Haldane. My men and I did not enlist to end up as prisoners. And Guadeloupe is not our home.’

  ‘I know, Monsieur,’ replied Haldane. He’d heard from more than one source how this man and his contingent of sailors had been forced to flee St Domingue after the slave rebellion. Trethgowan had provided an added insult when he refused these sailors leave to patrol the coastal waters.

  ‘What do you anticipate will happen if your general realises that the battle is lost?’

  Haldane was tempted to lie to him, to say that all would be well. But the look in the Frenchman’s dark, penetrating eyes precluded such a course. Both men kne
w the state of the army, knew that Victor Hugues had outmanoeuvred Trethgowan at every turn. If the ex-baker didn’t triumph today, he would tomorrow.

  ‘He will ask for terms.’

  ‘For his entire force?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘His entire force of soldiers?’ said the Frenchman, with heavy emphasis on the last word.

  Their eyes stayed locked together for a few seconds before Haldane replied. ‘Whatever you do, Monsieur, provided it is commensurate with your own honour, will surely satisfy me and my countrymen.’

  The squeak from de la Mery’s coat pocket, as his pet mongoose poked out its narrow little head, broke the stare. That was immediately followed by a fusillade of musketry as the French started to wade into the river. They ran to their allotted places, and joined the unbroken line of white-coated colonists. The smoke and noise of battle seemed to increase the heat. Soon every man on the river-bank who’d survived the fusillade was engaged in a personal contest. Bayonets jabbed forward, to be met and parried by pikes and swords. The cries of the wounded and dying lifted themselves above the clash of metal, only being drowned out by the thundering cannon as Hugues and Trethgowan aimed their field-pieces over the combatants’ heads.

  The great cheer from the inland flank, plus the merest hint of surging blue, was enough to tell Haldane that the weak and debilitated redcoats had failed to hold. The pressure on the colonists’ front decreased as Hugues withdrew those opposite to exploit the breakthrough. Forewarned by de la Mery, Haldane and his men immediately fell back. With a wave of his sword towards the gallant British officer, the Frenchman led his contingent away towards the town of Pointe-à-Pitre.

  The drums beat a steady rhythmic tattoo that wafted across the bay towards the anchored frigate. Ashore the act of surrender was being carried out with strict military precision, even if the surviving British redcoats could barely stand. In front of General Trethgowan stood the author of this singular defeat, the corpulent figure of the man who’d been sent from Paris to recapture the French sugar islands. At two cables’ distance, even through a telescope, his face was a blur. But his uniform said everything. Victor Hugues was dressed in black, unlike his gorgeously attired military advisers. Round his waist he wore a thick tricolour sash. His tall black hat was set off with a huge cockade: red, white, and blue, the colours of Jacobin Republicanism. Behind him, in neat ranks, his small army, preceded by the company of artillery, crossed the pontoon bridge which straddled the Rivière Salée. A substantial body of troops remained behind, guarding a large rectangular object shrouded by a tarpaulin. This piece of equipment aroused a great deal of curiosity. Under the awning, the officers gathered on the quarterdeck of Diomede speculated openly about what it might be. Bessborough stood rock still, as if by his immobility he might mitigate this blow to his country’s esteem. He didn’t react to the sudden activity behind him, keeping his telescope trained on the events unfolding ashore. To turn and enquire would be beneath his dignity as a vice-admiral of the red. Not that such a thing was necessary. The midshipman delivering the message to Captain Marcus Sandford had a clear voice and a penetrating delivery.

  ‘There’s a water hoy full of Frenchmen come out from Pointe-à-Pitre harbour, sir. Their leader says that they are sailors, not soldiers, therefore they are spared the obligation to surrender.’

  ‘How many?’ asked Sandford.

  ‘Forty in all, sir. Must have been hanging off the sides.’

  ‘Do you think they were observed from the shore?’

  The voice that answered, in heavily accented English, finally gave Bessborough cause to turn around. The party had come aboard without waiting to be invited, their leader stepping forward with his hat in his hand. The admiral saw before him a tall young man in a white frock coat, dark-skinned and handsome, with deep brown eyes and a steady gaze. His attention was then taken by a sudden movement and a mongoose, obviously the man’s pet, poked its head out of his coat pocket, jerking left and right as it gazed around the deck.

  ‘We were not seen by the canaille on the beach, Captain.’

  ‘General Trethgowan made the terms of surrender, Monsieur,’ said Sandford. ‘They quite specifically included all the Frenchmen who’d fought on the British side.’

  ‘To be exact, all the French soldiers, Captain.’

  Sandford looked pointedly at the uniform coat, which was of the same cut and colour as those of his fellow countrymen lined up behind the redcoats on shore.

  ‘Time did not allow us the luxury of an identity separate.’

  ‘Dillon?’ said Bessborough, as Sandford looked to him for a decision. The admiral’s political assistant gave a slight cough before replying. He was a tall man, thin and wiry with narrow features and slightly protruding blue eyes. His fine ginger hair was carefully arranged to cover encroaching baldness and his voice was soft, southern Irish.

  ‘It seems to me, sir, that the soldiers have given enough away for one day. I think General Trethgowan should have held out a bit longer. At least until Monsieur Hugues agreed to allow the Royalists to depart with our men. He can only wish to retain them for the purposes of humiliation, which is not something we should be a party to.’

  Bessborough didn’t give a toss for French humiliation. His mind was concentrated on the way that Trethgowan, and the army, had let him down. ‘Well, he didn’t, Dillon, which has landed all of us in a fine mess. God only knows what their lordships will make of this fiasco.’

  Trethgowan was most certainly finished as a soldier. The Horse Guards would never forgive him for such a defeat. But it was more than just a disaster for the army. As the naval commander on the spot, he wouldn’t escape without a blemish. Questions would be asked: like how a man with a force of two frigates, a brig, and five transports could have been allowed to sail unmolested all the way from France to the West Indies and, once there, land troops without any interference from the Royal Navy. There were circumstances that would mitigate the strictures of the Admiralty: Admiral Lord Howe, with his hatred of close blockade, had contrived to let this fellow escape from Brest; Hugues had arrived at the beginning of the hurricane season, a most unusual thing for a Frenchman to do, thus taking everyone in the region by surprise, then on landing he announced that all the slaves were to be free, in line with the tenets of the Revolution, a pronouncement that caused no end of unrest.

  But most of all, his troops were fresh from Europe, and everything Trethgowan had done only reinforced that telling advantage. Using the Rivière Salée as his main bastion he’d secured his right flank against the marshes and his left flank by the sea. It was too late now to tell the bonehead that in this part of the world to bivouac right next to a swamp was an elementary tactical error. By the time Hugues attacked, the August heat and the foul air from the marshes had left Trethgowan barely able to muster one tenth of his available strength. The troops Bessborough’d raised in English Harbour were still over the horizon, too far away to save the redcoats ashore, while the shallows of the river delta precluded the idea of using the frigate as a floating battery to harass the French. He needed the 32-pounder cannon of a 74-gun ship to achieve anything in that line. That too was some way off, escorting the lumbering troopships. It only added insult to injury that there was no sign of the two French frigates. The only vessels in the bay were Hugues’s transports and they were covered by Trethgowan’s truce.

  As the drums beat out a final hurried tattoo everyone faced the shore, just in time to see the regimental colours dip in surrender towards the pale white sand. At the rear of the line, the fleur-de-lis of Royal France dipped too, this before the ranks of white-coated soldiers. Trethgowan presented Hugues with his sword, which the Frenchman accepted. But when the commander of the Royalists proffered his in a like manner, the Jacobin declined to take it. This was a bitter moment. There wasn’t an officer aboard Diomede who didn’t think that Britain had a duty to those Frenchmen. But General Trethgowan, more concerned for the health of his own men, and faced with the intran
sigence of Hugues, had agreed to leave them behind with a promise from the new governor of Guadeloupe that they would be well treated.

  ‘You would imagine it couldn’t be worse,’ said Dillon, as the troops marched down to the edge of the beach, their pace set by the regimental fifes and drums. ‘But Trethgowan has even asked the sod for the use of his transports. Could he not have waited for us to gather some?’

  Bessborough scowled. The act of surrender had made his desire to sink those very ships impossible. ‘His sole aim, I imagine, is to get as far away from Guadeloupe, and as quickly as possible. After all, this fellow is allowing him to depart with his weapons and colours intact.’

  ‘It’s a neat ploy,’ said Captain Sandford, gloomily. ‘We can hardly go after his frigates while our troops are in their transports.’

  ‘Best send your barge ashore, Sandford. Trethgowan will expect us to take him and his staff aboard.’

  This didn’t please either man. Sandford had already given up his cabin to the admiral. With senior army officers aboard he’d likely have to shift again. Bessborough had no desire to spend a second with a man who, to his mind, deserved to swim to English Harbour. The sailors watched for an age as the troops, some walking, more carried, waded out into the surf and shuffled aboard the French transports.

  ‘Sail ho,’ came the cry from the mast-head. ‘Redoubtable, sir.’

  ‘Thank God,’ said Bessborough. ‘Sandford, hoist the following signal. Flag to Redoubtable. Depart from convoy and join flag with all despatch. I’ll shift into her as soon as she arrives. You can have the pleasure of Trethgowan’s company tonight.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ the captain replied, making no attempt to disguise the irony in his tone.

  ‘And on no account, Sandford, are you to surrender your cabin to him. That is a direct order. Make the general and his staff sling hammocks in the bilges if you so desire.’

  As if in agreement, the mongoose in the Frenchman’s pocket added a loud and penetrating squeak.