Enemies at Every Turn Read online

  These were, however, notions he kept to himself, instead content to praise the precautions they took against being surprised themselves. He was shown cunningly concealed mantraps, covered deep ditches as well with tops strong enough to support an individual, but into which half a dozen enemy soldiers would fall through their combined weight.

  One of their number had fought with the American Indians against the British, he being unmistakable by both his loose buckskin garb and the extremely long-barrelled musket he carried, which meant cunningly laid ropes that would see the victim hauled up to hang from a tree. There were whips of wood with sharp stakes attached both in the forest floor and tied to trees, coops in which geese were kept and fed so that, alarmed and noisy, they would alert the defenders long before anyone could harm them.

  There were hides where a body of fighters could lay invisible, waiting for the enemy, forced to come along the narrow paths in single file, unaware of the oil-soaked straw and leaf bundles that, ignited, would trap them and channel them in an area in which they could be mown down to a man, for it was made plain to Pearce that the taking of prisoners by either side was rare and only done to extract information by the most barbaric methods.

  Eventually the swamps ended and they proceeded through dry forest, where the tracks were wider and, judging by the slow progress, the possibility of an enemy presence needed to be guarded against. Then at last they were traversing more open country, a mixture of open heath dotted with woodland.

  Finally they came to a string of hamlets. The mounted bishop, if he had discarded his gilded garments for an outfit of hunting corduroy, still carried with him his gilded crook – as well as his glittering rings – which told everyone in each village they entered that their prelate had come amongst them and the effect was profound on the priests that served them and their parishioners.

  Like the first habitation to which he and Michael had been taken, it seemed the clerics were the leaders, obvious that the dominating lever to keep the local support firm was their adherence to their faith. If these people had risen up against Paris, and would continue to struggle, it was as much to uphold their church as any other motive. That none of them seemed to mind, as they kissed the bishop’s ring, that there was wealth enough meeting their lips to keep them for life, they did not react, which disgusted John Pearce.

  ‘Michael,’ Pearce said, in a slightly querulous tone, as the bishop performed yet another short open-air mass – he had to, as every church was a burnt ruin – ‘it is not required for you to kneel and pray every time the local peasants do.’

  ‘Said like a non-believer,’ Michael shot back, in no way abashed. ‘For you cannot feel the power of the man as I can.’

  ‘His power is in the imagination of the deluded.’

  ‘Sure, I doubt, should we die, John-boy, we will be meeting in heaven.’

  ‘Now there, Michael, I can agree with you.’

  Progress was slowed by all this clerical flummery, as well as the desire of the peasantry to feed and care for those they saw as saviours of both their bodies and souls. It was also noticeable that the party, at each halt, was in receipt of recent information regarding the forces of the Revolution, equally apparent that such intelligence became less reliable the further they went from the swampy base.

  They took to moving with increasing caution, only entering any clutch of huddled dwellings after a proper reconnaissance, until finally they came to a more sizeable community of some thirty dwellings by a bridged river, close to a destroyed and, in the gathering gloom, eerie-looking manor house, where he was informed they would spend the night.

  ‘Tomorrow, Lieutenant,’ said the Count de Puisaye, when Pearce enquired as to the risk, ‘we will be coming very close to the ungodly. You will see their main encampments, the ones that ensure we are confined to the swamps.’

  ‘I need to know their numbers, monsieur, and the state of their defences.’

  ‘We will tell you the former and show you the latter,’ Puisaye said, his eyes flashing. ‘And we will show you their quality, which is low, then you will see how easy they will be to defeat if we are given the means to do so. Now join me in prayer, so that our cause will prosper.’

  ‘Forgive me if I decline.’

  ‘You do not believe in God?’

  ‘Let me quote you Lucretius, when he says that religion is sublime to the ignorant, helpful to the ruler and profitable to the man of business. Since I am none of those things …’

  ‘As you wish, but I will say a prayer for you nevertheless.’

  ‘There are others who need your prayers more than I.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  If the first day of battle had been exasperating aboard HMS Semele, the second was even more so; with what looked like a superior rate of sailing and Ralph Barclay still harbouring thoughts of Howe being humbugged, the Channel Fleet had closed enough with the enemy for the entire van and the forward section of the centre squadron to engage. That left HMS Semele once more as an observer, not a participant, yet so close to the action she was enveloped in drifting smoke from the guns of Queen Charlotte, which served to cut off from view much of what was happening ahead.

  They were witness, though few aboard knew it, to the frantic signals from the flagship to the lead vessel in the van, to obey what orders had already been sent out to close with the enemy. Ralph Barclay, informed of their meaning, was thinking that in Captain Molloy of HMS Caesar he had a man who shared his caution, a sea officer who doubted the wisdom of Howe’s instructions in the first place and was not willing to put them to the test and risk destruction when unsupported by the whole weight of the fleet.

  This was underlined by what information was being relayed to him from aloft about the positions of the opposing forces; Barclay could reckon that imposing a decisive conclusion seemed unlikely given the wind, the sea state and the positions of the opposing fleets. It was, in the main, long-range gunnery, the return fire doing some damage to the rigging of the flagship but little or none to the hull.

  Such was being suffered by another flagship, that of Rear Admiral Gardner in HMS Queen, one of only two 100-gun first rates engaged, but despite the best efforts of Gardner and Lord Hood’s brother and fellow admiral, Alexander, in HMS Royal George, the enemy was in no way threatened with the kind of battle that would either pin or destroy them.

  When battle was finally broken off, Black Dick Howe issued orders that presaged a wager on the fact that the prevailing wind from the south-west might hold and possibly increase. If his gamble paid off and the French held their course, he would get to windward of them and be able to choose whether to attack or not; if the wind changed, he would look like a dunce – such were the vagaries of sea command, so slight the margin between success and failure, knowledge that filtered down from the quarterdeck to those below.

  ‘Word is we will get a proper fight on the morrow,’ said Davy.

  ‘How can you be certain?’ asked Charlie Taverner.

  The question had the men crowded round the table leaning forward, for this was a popular mess and Davy seen as something of a sage, so many left their own tables to gather round his. The gun deck was cleared from prow to stern, lit by lanterns, the bulkheads that cut off the wardroom struck below, so the accommodation of the lieutenants, as well as the master and the purser, was visible to all, the deadlights rigged on the casements cutting out even the light of the moon and the stars.

  ‘I heard the words of a man who stood close to the premier while he was talking with Barclay. Capt’n says if Old Howe has it right and the Frogs have not seen what he might do, he will be able to force ’em to fight, like it or no.’

  There was no questioning of the source, for there were few secrets on any ship, size being of no consequence. Men-o’-war were crowded spaces, and when it came to the spreading of rumour or fact it was as if the scantlings had ears, or to some officers’ way of thinking that there was a spirit presence on board – a superstition most of the hands rated as a ce
rtainty – an entity easy to cross and one that had to be assuaged with proper behaviour.

  ‘Your young mate has been gone a while, Charlie, happen he is a touch gravid.’

  ‘Bit soon for that, Davy,’ Charlie responded, though it was common enough, given the diet, to be tight-bound when it came to evacuation. For all his seeming unconcern, the Welshman had touched on a truth; Rufus had been gone longer to heads than was normal. ‘Happen I will go and see what he’s about.’

  ‘Bein’ his age,’ an Irishman called Byrne opined, ‘I reckon we know what that is.’

  ‘A trip round the bay by way of a ready hand,’ joked another of Rufus’s messmates.

  ‘Don’t you go getting all righteous,’ Charlie responded, rising to go, but grinning. ‘There’s not a man here who ain’t seen your hammock rocking of a night.’

  No seaman could just leave the gun deck to go to the forepeak without a marine gave permission, and with their redcoats being bullocks not lobsters there were occasions when the soldier on duty took delight in refusal as revenge for the endless ribbing they got from the sailors aboard, mostly for the fact that, even being at sea for a while, many were still green around the gills.

  Tars were not too fond of marines in any case, but when they were saddled with army men for the shortage of true lobsters, that was a cause for more friction, given they, like the landsmen on board, were clueless about the duties they shared with the seamen. Yet in that area, as in relation with those pressed, matters were settling down with familiarity.

  Most men had found their level, or more importantly those who ordered them about had sorted out the ones who would learn their tasks from those who never would. So it took a mere indication and a nod for Charlie Taverner to pass through to the heads, his shoulders hunched as he reached out to the door to the windswept forepeak, pitching and rolling in the long swell.

  It opened before he got to the latch and the man who exited rushed past swearing loudly and clutching his ducks, while on his face was a look of alarm close to fright. In the light of the moon and stars Charlie saw the three-quarters outline of Devenow, which gave him pause, until he realised that gripped in one of his hands – the other was slapping to and fro – was a limp Rufus Dommet.

  The door, under pressure of wind, slammed shut, cutting off the scene. There was no time to look for support and Charlie spun round to seek a weapon, his eye going to the nearest of the great guns bowsed up against the closed gun port. With the ship cleared for action, all the implements needed to work it were ready for use, not stowed away; the only one he thought of use was the handspike, which would be employed in shifting the weapon from side to side.

  A solid block of wood, square at one end so it could grip on the deck planking for heaving, it was just the right size for what was needed. Holding it in one hand, Charlie reopened the door and went through swinging. Devenow saw him coming and dropped Rufus, who fell in a heap, but the bully was too slow.

  The first blow took him at the back of his knees, with Charlie ducking under the haymaker fist aimed at his head. The handspike was a weight and it was that rather than the effort behind it that caused Devenow, with a screaming curse, to drop to one knee. The temptation then was to crown the bastard, but even with a red mist Charlie had no notion to hang for the swine.

  So it was a vicious jab to the side of his head with the square end instead of a full-armed swing that was delivered, yet that, given the force with which it was driven, was enough to fell Devenow completely, he emitting nothing but a low groan as he crumpled and passed out. Dropping the handspike, Charlie knelt beside Rufus, noting the blood on his face, black in the available light.

  Devenow groaned again within seconds; the bugger was coming round, so Charlie pulled Rufus up on to his backside, pleading with him to respond and get to his feet. That took some doing, for the youngster was not much help, but eventually he was upright, groggy for certain but able to move with aid, enough to get him to the other side of the forepeak door.

  Charlie sat him on the cannon and went back for the handspike, picking it up and looking down at Devenow, who was whimpering, then grunting. There was no time to muck about – he had to get Rufus to safety and himself too, for he had no notion that, even with his weapon, he would be able to take on this sod fully ready. Back through the door he went, where he dropped the handspike, picked up a slightly recovered Rufus and harried him back to the mess table past a soldier-marine who showed no interest at all in the fact that the youngster was hurt.

  ‘How much did you take for that duty, you bugger?’ Charlie demanded over his shoulder, suddenly sure that Devenow would have cleared his way for an assault too dangerous to carry out without a bribe.

  The sentry just grinned at Charlie’s retreating back, his voice loud enough to carry. ‘Happen you lot won’t be quite so sharp with your needlin’ now and will show us some respect.’

  By the time Charlie had got back to the table it was clear; the watch was changing and all his messmates were going to their stations, but Davy, last to depart, saw the state Rufus was in and rushed to help.

  ‘Best get him on deck and out of sight.’

  ‘Weren’t his fault, mate.’

  ‘Makes no odds, Charlie, boyo, he has the marks of a fight on him an’ that is enough to earn him the cat if he is seen to have been bruising.’

  The sight of Devenow, with blood streaming from a split ear, staggering with a discernible limp into the corridor that led to the great cabin, brought joy to Gherson, whom he woke up with his noise, that compounded by the yelling which came from his still-awake master when he caught sight of his man; the captain naturally assumed he was drunk.

  Despite the loud dressing-down, the surgeon was roused out from his slumbers to attend, so that when Ralph Barclay appeared on deck before first light he was attended by a very groggy Devenow, his head wrapped in a bandage. Gherson, having no duties to do with fighting battles, had gone back to sleep, only occasionally roused to curse the bells that ruled the naval day.

  It was not long after five of the clock, when a man could see a grey goose at a quarter mile, that the rigging of the enemy began to show to leeward, proof that Howe’s manoeuvre had paid off handsomely; he had the weather gage and could enforce the battle he so desired unless the French fleet ran away. Feet planted wide apart, knees giving to take the movement of the deck beneath them, Ralph Barclay had to his eye a telescope that had been opened for him with which to examine the opposition.

  In numbers of ships the French were near equal, but it was in weight of metal that they had the edge, their first rates carrying a superior number of guns to their counterparts in Howe’s fleet. Added to that, their vessels had been in port for some time and were in better condition than many of their opponents, which had been at sea on and off for a year, their bottom fouling up in the process.

  To counter that superiority in weapons, the Wooden Walls of England had better worked-up crews, so it was in the article of rapid gunnery and slick seamanship that the difference should show, the odds would be evened up and the success or failure of the battle be decided.

  ‘Signal for flag, sir, all hands to breakfast.’

  ‘Mr Jackson, make it so.’

  ‘Now that, boyos,’ cried Davy, ‘is an admiral who knows how to treat his men, who would struggle to fight on a rumblin’ gut.’

  ‘Either that,’ Charlie responded, ‘or we’s in for a very long day.’

  By the time the first guns from the upper deck opened fire at maximum range, eight bells had been rung and the two opposing fleets were strung out in line ahead. Down below, the gun ports were closed to keep out the water from the strong Atlantic swell in which the ships were straining for every ounce of speed and would remain so until the enemy was yardarm to yardarm, so that the crews were crouched around them in near darkness, relying on whispers from the running powder monkeys carrying cartridges and quills to tell them what was happening.

  HMS Semele was exchanging fire with seve
ral French vessels as the Channel Fleet inched forward to overhaul an enemy that had only two options: to hold line and accept battle, or run north to avoid it. Again Ralph Barclay was wondering at the French tactics, for it seemed that the enemy admiral had no intention of avoiding a contest, even if his position was the inferior one in which he could not have been blamed for avoidance.

  Howe was favoured by the wind should he decide to bring his line closer, the second advantage being that the smoke from his broadsides would obscure his ships, which was not a favour the French would enjoy; quite the reverse: the southerly wind would leave him fully exposed throughout the coming exchange and at some point it was to be expected, under the normal rules of engagement, he would choose to acknowledge his difficulties and grant Howe a victory by declining to continue.

  With such an obvious advantage Black Dick had seemingly forgotten about his questionable manoeuvres and was holding his line as dictated by the Admiralty Fighting Instructions; Barclay expected he would be required to close the range to distance fire, which could be achieved with what canvas was set and sheeted home, topsails and topgallants, by the use of the rudder.

  It therefore came as a shock to see the flags go aloft to tell every ship in the line to immediately change course and do as had been outlined in those orders thrown over from that frigate. Queen Charlotte began to turn into her own gun smoke, her yards braced round to take more of the wind, bringing an instant increase in her rate of sailing, prow aimed directly at the French flagship, the 110-gun Montagne – an act which rendered useless her own broadside cannon, which fell silent.

  ‘Madness,’ Barclay swore, for it was obvious that Howe would take a real battering as the range closed without being able to reply with anything other than his lightweight bow chasers; his main armament would remain useless unless he bore up on his original course, which a watching Semele captain was sure he would be obliged to do.