The Price of Glory (3 page)

Nathan had seen a selection of these eager fellows lining the rails of the transports on his way from the
Unicorn
and would not have said they displayed any more signs of haste than the commodore. Though they wore the red coats of British regular infantry, they were French émigrés who had fled to England in the years since the Revolution and were now being sent back courtesy of the British government and at the expense of the British taxpayer, to restore the Bourbons to the throne of France. Judging from the scowls Nathan had observed as he was rowed past them in his barge they were by no means as fervent to accomplish that feat as those who had despatched them hither.

“And what force is at our disposal, sir?” Nathan enquired, “if it is not to betray a confidence.”

“Well, it is to be hoped the French remain in ignorance for a while longer but I believe we may share the secret with you, Captain, as you must play your part in ensuring our success. The first contingent consists of above two thousand infantry—but doubtless Mr. Finch will have a more precise figure to hand.”

Mr. Finch was the Commodore's political adviser: a man of indeterminate years, but no longer youthful—if indeed he had ever enjoyed that state—with a long, thin face and the sober dress of a clergyman or a banker. Being an appointee of the First Lord of the Treasury, it was probably the latter. Mr. Pitt must have dipped heavily into the public purse to finance the expedition and Mr. Finch was doubtless expected to account for every penny upon his return—and the value derived thereof.

He attached a pair of spectacles to the end of his long, thin nose and began to read from one of the many documents on the table before him: “Four regiments of foot under d'Hervilly, Dudresmay, d'Hector and La Chartre, each comprising between 300 and 340 muskets. Rotalier's artillery regiment comprising 60 guns and 720 men. Some 80 additional officers to command volunteers from the local population. And 50 priests under the Archbishop of Dol.”

Sir John noted Nathan's surprise at this latter provision and was moved to explain.

“The local populace having a great respect for their priests, not dissimilar to that of the King's Catholic subjects in Ireland. Despite the efforts of the Republican authorities to persuade them otherwise.” His tone remained sardonic. “Doubtless they will perform miracles.”

They would have to if such a miserly force were to turn back the tide of Revolution, Nathan thought. Possibly this heresy conveyed itself to Mr. Finch who added: “This being the composition of the
first
division. The second, of approximately equal number, has been assembled in the Channel Isles and is to join us presently. And of course we anticipate considerable reinforcement from the Royalist rebels currently active in the Vendée.”

Warren arched a thin brow in Nathan's direction. “I take it you are familiar with the situation in the Vendée, Captain?”

“I have not made it my particular study,” Nathan temporised, carefully.

In fact the present company might have been surprised to know just how much the situation in the Vendée interested him, and why.

“I am sure Mr. Finch will supply any deficiency in that respect,” the commodore murmured.

Mr. Finch required no further prompting. “I think it is fair to say that the whole of Brittany and much of the country south to the Gironde is united in its opposition to the current regime in Paris,” he announced confidently. “Many have risen in open rebellion, led by their nobles and their priests, calling themselves the Catholic and Royalist Army—otherwise known as the Chouans, a term derived from the French word for the hooting of an owl which they employ as a signal to attack, usually by night.”

“I think we may assume that Captain Peake needs no tuition in the French language, whatever his appreciation of the strategic situation,” Sir John proposed, “or of the local wildlife.”

Despite the flippancy of his tone, Nathan wondered if the remark betrayed a greater insight than he would have thought possible in the circumstances. The only man he had told of his interest in the Vendée was Martin Tully and he was confident he could rely upon his discretion. But there had been the letter to his mother … Pitt's agents were perfectly capable of intercepting correspondence between private individuals and might, indeed, be expected to do so if it originated in France. Besides, she had been under surveillance for her Republican sympathies since before the war. Could this be why he had been sent to join the expedition, so soon after his return from the West Indies? But for what purpose?

“They are, of course, irregulars,” Mr. Finch continued, “but they have enjoyed some success over the National Guard and we hope to increase this by furnishing them with a suffi ciency of weapons and equipment. To wit …”

“To woo,” murmured the commodore as his secretary dipped his nose once more into the papers. He looked to Nathan for appreciation and allowed a small but petulant frown to cross his noble features when he observed none.

Mr. Finch summoned up a thin smile before reading on: “Eighty thousand stand of arms, clothing and shoes, horses and saddlery, food, wine, brandy, and several tons of gunpowder …”

“I believe you may spare the captain a more detailed inventory,” interrupted the commodore. “However, it is imperative that this equipment is put ashore as quickly as possible and finds its way to the right people, which is where your expertise will come in useful, Captain.”

It seemed to Nathan that the expertise of a good army quartermaster would be of more use. Or a pilot with intimate knowledge of the Bay of Quiberon. But he proposed neither of these solutions.

“If you will oblige me by considering the charts.” The commodore levered himself from his chair, brushed an imagined speck of powder from his shoulder, and crossed to the table. “Here is our present position.” He drew an invisible circle with his finger just off the long crab's claw of Quiberon, projecting some nine or ten miles out into the Bay of Biscay. “And here is the Gulf of Morbihan.” He moved his finger to the mainland and indicated a narrow gap in the coastline opening into what appeared to be a large inland sea. Nathan noted a great many islands and almost as many rivers or inlets extending deep into the surrounding countryside.

“Morbihan,” repeated Warren, “from the Breton,
Ar Mor Bihan
, meaning ‘the Little Sea.'” He traced a winding trail along the northern edge of the Gulf. “And this is the only road to Quiberon from the interior which—as you can see—gives the Morbihan a wide berth until it reaches the River Auray.” His finger paused at the longest of the several rivers flowing into the Gulf. “And here it is obliged to employ the use of a bridge.” He tapped upon the chart several times for emphasis. “The bridge at Auray. Mark it well, Captain. The only bridge I am assured, for some fifty miles. Now if our information is correct …” he rolled a leery eye in the direction of Mr. Finch, “there is a large contingent of Chouans investing the town, doubtless practising their owl hoots upon the Republican garrison therein. If one were to land a quantity of arms within their grasp they may aspire to greater things. If they were to
take
Auray—and hold it for us—then as you will see it will prevent the approach of Republican forces from the interior.”

But Nathan's practised eye was taking in other details of the map, most especially the batteries marked at the mouth of the Gulf and the depths within. These were shallow waters, even at high tide, and at low tide they would be mostly mud. But Warren had anticipated these problems and had the solutions to hand.

“I am assured the batteries look more impressive on the chart than they are in reality. The guns are old and have not been fired in anger for many years. You should be able to silence them easily enough with your 18-pounders.”

“But I cannot take the
Unicorn
into the Gulf, sir, not with her draught.”

“No, sir, and only a fool would suppose it. You will command a fleet of smaller vessels that are being assembled as we speak, with as many seamen and marines as I can spare for the enterprise. And you may, of course, avail yourself of your own marines and crew. That is,” he raised a mocking brow, “if you have no objection to the commission.”

Nathan ran his eye once more across the chart. A labyrinth of small islands, mud banks and creeks, beset by perverse currents and washed by wayward tides. And no clear idea of what force the enemy could muster against him or of what help to expect from the Chouans, if any.

He inclined his head in a polite bow. “No objection at all, sir.

Indeed, I thank you for giving me the honour.”

“My pleasure, Captain,” replied the commodore, with a smile.

W
ELL,” DECLARED NATHAN
lowering his Dolland glass but keeping his observation for Tully's private ear, “if those guns have not been fired in anger for as long as the commodore believes, it can only be because no one has been fool enough to provoke them.”

The entrance to the Gulf of Morbihan was every bit as bad as he had feared from his consideration of the charts: a nightmare of currents and eddies, girt about with rocks and shoals—and barely a thousand yards across. According to Monsieur Calvez, the old fisher man who had been recruited as guide—and official Jonah—to the expedition, the flood ran at between 6 and 8 knots; he did not mention the ebb as it was clearly impossible to enter the Gulf whilst it was running. In fact, you did not
enter
the Gulf of Morbihan at all; you were either sucked in or spat out, depending upon the tide.

But the natural hazards were as nothing compared to those contrived by man, for on each side of this channel were the batteries the commodore had dismissed with such nonchalance. The one on the western flank was at the end of Point Kerpenhir, slightly into the mouth of the Gulf not much above sea level; the eastern on a gentle slope above the fishing village of Port-Navalo. The guns might well be as old as Warren said they were but they appeared to be in excellent condition: a dozen 12-pounders to each battery, protected by a stone palisade and angled so as to sweep the mouth of Morbihan in a murderous crossfire. From the amount of smoke in the air, Nathan judged that the gunners possessed braziers in which to heat the shot, which would make life even more interesting for any vessel that tried to run the gauntlet.

A sudden flash, closely followed by the report rolling out across the water: a ranging shot from the battery on Point Kerpenhir. Nathan marked the splash, some three or four hundred yards off their larboard bow, the shot skipping over the flattish waves towards them before sinking well short. He felt confident that he could stand off and pound either position with impunity, though he doubted he would achieve much by the manoeuvre for the batteries were hunkered down behind steeply sloping banks of earth, each topped by a stone parapet. He might have shelled them into submission had he possessed that option—a bomb ketch would have changed the situation greatly in his favour—but the commodore had not thought to provide him with such an object. The fleet he
had
provided stood well out into the bay: a motley collection of gunboats and barges and the gun brig
Conquest,
which unlike the
Unicorn
could operate in the shallow waters of the Gulf. If she survived the hazards of entering them.

“Major Howard. Good morning to you, sir. Perhaps you would care to take a look at our objective.”

This to the officer of marines who had just appeared upon the quarterdeck, yawning and stretching and looking about him as if dawn was a new experience to him, which it possibly was.

Major the Honourable William Howard commanded a force of just over two hundred marines, presently distributed about the smaller boats of the squadron. He had not previously been to sea, he had confided to Nathan shortly after coming aboard, and had been frightfully sick upon the voyage from England. The calmer waters of the Bay of Quiberon suited him better and he was able to put his eye to the glass with equanimity, bracing himself against the rail.

Nathan waited patiently while the major exposed the two batteries to a lengthy study and then transferred his attention to the slope beyond Port-Navalo on the eastern flank. Nathan had also given this some scrutiny. It was open heath for the most part with no cover save for a small patch of brushwood and a few ancient dolmens—the peculiar stone monuments that littered the region, about the size of a man. A small cove lay about half a mile further along the coast to the east, with a sandy beach which would make a perfect landing place—well out of sight of the guns—but Nathan doubted if much could be accomplished with a couple of hundred men. And nor did Howard judging from the thoughtful expression on his face when he handed back the glass.

“Anything spring to mind?” Nathan enquired, more in jest than hope.

“A hornet's nest, is what springs to mind, sir. Best avoided.”

“Best avoided,” Nathan nodded. “Thank you, Major, I shall put that in my report.”

“Well, I suppose under cover of darkness and with some kind of a diversion …”

“What do you think?” asked Nathan of his first lieutenant in the privacy of his cabin while the
Unicorn
and her little squadron cruised off the Morbihan, waiting for dark.

Tully studied the chart as if it might tell them something they did not already know.

“Well, if the marines can take the fort on the eastern approach under cover of darkness, and we bring the fleet in close to the eastern shore—and the guns on the western approach cannot sight us against the land—then it might be possible.” His tone was not encouraging. “But to sail so close to the shore in the darkness and then into Morbihan itself when the tide is low …” He shook his head. “Is there no other way ?”

“None that I can think of. “ Nathan flopped down in his chair. “To hell with it. I shall go back and tell him it can't be done.”