Chapter 14
Onboard la Reine Noire off the northwest coast of Brittany, France, 30 May
Freddie peered through the spyglass, seeing only dense fog but sensing ships lay hidden within the heavy mist. “They’re out there, I can feel it.”
He handed the glass to Donet, standing at his side.
Donet frowned, his black eyes speaking his displeasure at the delay caused by the fog. “Admiral Howe would not have sent the message requesting my presence on the Queen Charlotte were he not intending to be here. ’Tis a far distance from Brest but I am certain the French fleet is close by as well.”
Freddie had read the message waiting for Donet when they’d arrived on Guernsey in which Howe said Prime Minister Pitt thought Donet could provide useful intelligence on the French Navy. Dispatched from the port of Brest under the command of Admiral Villaret, with whom la Reine Noire had tangled on the Channel months before, the French fleet was to protect an American convoy carrying corn to famine-threatened France. Howe’s orders were to block the grain shipment from reaching its destination.
Freddie looked toward the aft hatch. The woman who would soon be his bride slept belowdecks. He had wanted Zoé to stay on Guernsey but all his persuading was to no avail. “Pigeon, my sister is eager to help plan the wedding. Why not stay and oblige her?”
“How can you ask me to stay behind when I have only just got you back? Non,” she said, pouting her perfect lips. “There will be no sailing away without me. I am going with you.”
When he told Donet that Zoé intended to sail with them, her uncle shrugged. “As French merchantmen flying the flag of the Republic, we will not be subject to an attack by Villaret and we are expected by Howe. Our business can soon be concluded and we will return to Guernsey.”
Freddie’s time on the island with Zoé, though brief, had been sweet. Whenever they could, they escaped into the gardens to be alone. She had welcomed his kisses, whetting his appetite for the honeymoon he had long dreamed of. Now that he was assured of her love, he wanted her safe, away from the war.
But the French temptress could be stubborn when it came to dismissing risk.
Once on board la Reine Noire, she had advised him if fighting began she would not again be sent to the orlop deck. “Absolument pas!” The fury in her gray eyes only made her more beautiful rendering his objection a faint protest he soon abandoned.
He could hardly refuse Donet’s request to join him after the daring rescue he had undertaken on Freddie’s behalf, snatching him from the jaws of Paris’ guillotine. At least Freddie had managed to leave Pax and Isabeau in his sister’s care on Guernsey, which delighted Jack, who assumed the new arrivals were for him to supervise.
And so, here he was, sailing into what might be the largest naval battle of the war, worrying about Zoé every minute.
When Donet heeded Admiral Howe’s call, Freddie had asked about the ships in the British Channel Fleet and learned that the HMS Orion, on which Zack Barlow’s son, Danny, served was among them. Freddie remembered telling Zack he would bring him a report on his son but he never expected to be an eyewitness to a battle in which Danny might play a role.
“Do you think those French ships that passed us yesterday were a part of the grain convoy?” he asked Donet. Since la Reine Noire flew the Republic’s flag, the French ships of the line had sailed right past them, heading for Brest, their home port.
“Non. The grain convoy, I suspect, has yet to arrive. More likely, Villaret was sending the ships we saw to Brest for repairs. At least one had received serious damage from what I could see.”
Freddie stared into the fog trying to imagine a ship lurking in the gray mist. “Then the battle has already begun.”
“Most assuredly. At least a skirmish or two.”
The next day, to Freddie’s relief, the fog lifted and the day after, the first of June, early in the morning they found the Channel Fleet and Admiral Howe’s flagship, the Queen Charlotte.
“Can’t I go with you?” Zoé asked Freddie, hating the answer she knew was coming.
“No, mon amour.” He tapped her playfully on the nose. “For one thing, you are French and we will be boarding the flagship of the British commander of the Channel Fleet.” Her gaze shifted to her uncle who was just descending the manrope to the skiff. If he could go, why can’t—
As if reading her mind, Freddie said, “The only reason your uncle is invited to the Queen Charlotte is because Pitt requested he be consulted.”
She pursed her lips. “And you?”
“It seems as I am a spy for England, Pitt allowed that I, too, might be of help.”
She had always known he was working for England, but only after they’d returned from Paris did he tell her the accusations the republican soldiers hurled at him in the woods near Rennes were true. The coded message he had passed to her that was now in Philippe d’Auvergne’s hands would help England to meet the needs of the Chouans.
He was more gallant, more courageous than she had realized. And he was to be hers! The thought brought tears to her eyes and a tightness to her throat.
While she understood his refusal to take her aboard the Queen Charlotte, that did not diminish her disappointment. She had so wanted to see the ship her uncle had told her was the largest of the warships in the British Navy. “Oh very well,” she said on a sigh, “I shall just have to watch her hundred guns from here.”
“You’ll not be as close as that, Pigeon. Bequel has orders to keep la Reine Noire far from any battle.”
Aboard the Queen Charlotte in the North Atlantic west of Brittany
Freddie and Donet climbed aboard the admiral’s flagship where Howe and his officers met them. His full head of silver hair rendered him very distinguished in his dark blue frock coat with large gold buttons, white waistcoat and breeches. Freddie was surprised at the age of the admiral; he had to be near seventy. For a man of the sea, his face bore few lines, but beneath his bicorne hat, his cheeks were red.
The admiral, made 1st Earl Howe by a grateful King George, carried himself with rigid British formality as he shook their hands, his accent crisp. “Pitt trusts you, Donet. So, it seems, must I. And you, West. I’m told you have already supplied the government with useful intelligence. Perhaps you can provide me with more.” Gesturing them toward his great cabin, he said, “What can you tell me of Villaret’s officers, his crews?”
They entered the well-appointed stateroom containing so many books it could have been a shop on Oxford Street. Howe removed his hat and bid them sit in the chairs set around the large mahogany table that matched his smaller desk. The admiral’s forehead that had been protected by his bicorne hat remained the pale skin of an Englishman, unlike the rest of his sun-reddened face.
The steward, who’d been standing inside the door, poured coffee.
Taking a sip, Donet said, “Villaret’s officers, like himself, have little training and little experience. As you probably know, sir, the French ships are built to a high standard but the French Navy is in a state of confusion. So many senior officers were executed in the purge of last year that junior officers had to be raised before they were ready. Even merchant captains, some I know, were among those made officers.”
“Worse than I had imagined,” said Howe with a chuckle and a small smile aimed at Donet. Freddie had heard the admiral was a man of dry humor.
“Indeed, sir,” said Donet, “but I can assure you, given my loyalty to England in this war, I was not approached. Villaret himself was only a captain earlier this year when Mr. West and I engaged him in the Channel. Then, he commanded the Trajan.”
“To your point about the high quality of the French ships,” offered Howe in a more serious tone, “Villaret’s flag now flies above the Montagne with her one hundred and twenty guns. Though I am reluctant to admit it, she is possibly the finest ship in the world.”
“He may have a fine ship,” offered Freddie, “but the supply crisis in France has contributed to the discontent that is rife among the French crews. From my observations of the French fleet off Brest for the past year, too often the crews are without pay and, at times, without food.”
“I see,” said the admiral staring out the stern windows.
“We were aware some battles have already occurred,” Donet said, “and observed a few of Villaret’s ships limping into Brest. How stands your fleet?”
“Twenty-five ships, though some have sustained damage. The only good news is that Villaret’s fleet has lost six ships. However, as of yesterday, I had a report four more have joined them, making our numbers nearly equal. Finish your coffee and we shall consult the master for the latest report.”
The admiral rose, accepted his hat from his steward and strode from his cabin to emerge onto the quarterdeck.
“Sir,” the master said, “the enemy fleet has been spotted six miles off the starboard bow steering in line of battle on the port tack.”
Freddie had heard the rumor that “Black Dick” Howe, as his sailors had dubbed him, never smiled except when a battle drew near. He was smiling now.
“Signal the fleet to form in line abreast,” ordered Howe. Then, addressing Freddie and Donet, “Too late for you to leave. It seems you are to have the privilege of witnessing our victory.”
“Excuse me, sir,” said Donet, “I must send a message to my ship.”
“Why, of course. My signalmen are at your disposal to wave off your ship.”
Which is exactly what happened. Freddie looked not at the British fleet forming into a line to converge upon the French fleet, but to the brig-sloop veering off from the battle to come. “Thank God,” he said under his breath.
“Émile Bequel is a seasoned captain, West, more than capable of getting la Reine Noire free of the battle lines. Worry not for my niece and my ship. We are more in danger than they.” But despite his words Donet’s black eyes stared intently toward la Reine Noire.
Satisfied Donet’s ship and Zoé were out of danger, Freddie turned his attention to the battle to come. Standing on the quarterdeck, he was awed by the twenty-five British ships moving in a line toward the French line of twenty-six. Pride welled in his chest as he realized that, in some small way, he’d served his country well in helping England fight a war she would surely win.
An hour later, the French opened fire, their mighty guns sounding loud in Freddie’s ears. But the shot was high. In turn, Howe ordered signal flags to be flown that called for his ships to turn into the French and engage in close action.
“An unusual move,” said Freddie.
“Aye,” said Donet. “The admiral has guts.”
The British fire raked the French ships through the stern, Howe’s fleet engaging them on the leeward side before the French guns could be brought to bear. The ocean exploded with the sound of guns firing, the white smoke shooting out from the gun ports. Soon the sky darkened with smoke from ships burning, the smell bitter in Freddie’s nostrils.
The Queen Charlotte was not immune to the French guns. Shot fell on the quarterdeck near where Freddie and Donet were standing. Twice Freddie had to dodge a falling timber and torn pieces of shrouds. Flayed loose rigging fell to the deck, winding around men, causing injuries. Officers and sailors were picked off by French marksmen, making Freddie glad he and Donet did not wear the distinctive uniforms that would have made them prime targets.
As Howe headed for the ladder to join his senior officers on the poop deck, he urged his guests to go below.
Freddie declined. “Damn my eyes, sir, but I’d not miss this for anything.”
At his side, Donet agreed, thanking the admiral. When the admiral had moved above them, Donet said, “We’ll not be providing the details of what we experience to your sister, agreed?”
Freddie nodded. He’d not be providing the details to Zoé either.
Walking with his senior officers on the poop deck, Admiral Howe seemed unfazed by his crew falling around him and the spars and rigging rattling down on all sides.
Amazed at Howe’s composure, Freddie heard Howe order no shot was to be fired. Instead, he ordered the pilot to lay the Queen Charlotte alongside the Montagne.
After pleas from his officers to allow them to return fire, Howe agreed to fire from the main and quarter decks but insisted they hold back the rest of his guns.
“Now that’s courage,” muttered Donet. “He’s reserving his broadside for the stern of the Montagne, a strategy I approve.”
A minute later, Freddie witnessed the power of those guns trained on Villaret’s flagship as the Queen Charlotte slowly passed through the French line between the huge three-decker Montagne and an eighty-gun French ship. So close did the ships pass that the tricolor flag, waving at Montagne’s flagstaff, brushed the Queen Charlotte’s mizzen rigging.
“Good God,” Freddie gasped when the blast from the broadside tore into Villaret’s ship, catching her unprepared.
“They didn’t expect an assault from leeward,” said Donet. “Inexperience and lack of foresight.”
Surely Howe will take her now, Freddie thought. But just then, the fore-topmast of the Queen Charlotte came clattering down with a loud crash. In the confusion, the badly damaged Montagne sheered off, leaving Admiral Howe to engage with the two French ships astern of her.
A terrible battle ensued, in which the Queen Charlotte lost her main topmast. With one topmast gone and rigging and yards badly damaged, Howe’s flagship had become practically unmanageable. One of his captains sent a lieutenant to ask if Howe wanted to transfer his flag.
The admiral vehemently refused.
At the end of the battle, the French Vengeur, having fought valiantly, began to sink. She displayed the British flag in submission and called for help. Three British ships sent boats into the water to pick up survivors. They were in time to save hundreds, though hundreds more went down with the ship.
The remaining French ships veered off in all directions. The British ships did not pursue but closed around the Queen Charlotte with their prizes. Except for four ships that had been disabled in the fighting, the British fleet was ready to renew battle.
“Shouldn’t he take the French ships now?” Freddie asked Donet. “They are easy prey, shattered, dismasted and riddled with shot.”
“Oui, I would have. But Howe seems content with his six prizes. And his victory. The republicans have lost thousands of sailors and the British, I would venture, have lost hundreds.”
The firing stopped shortly after one in the afternoon. As the smoke began to clear, Freddie gazed about the deck of the great warship strewn with pieces of mast, torn rigging and shrouds and bodies of men who had served their last post. In the ocean beyond, debris from wounded ships bobbed in the waters. All around the Queen Charlotte, damaged ships like so many broken toys cast aside by a destructive giant child managed to stay afloat.
Freddie recalled Pitt’s grave warning of an attack on England’s southern coast. The Prime Minister would be pleased to learn of Howe’s victory, accepting the price in men’s lives as necessary. To the British people who had feared an invasion, the defeat of the French fleet would mean an end to that threat. Freddie had to wonder if he’d not accepted Nepean’s challenge to become England’s spy, would he have been here today serving on one of the ships in the Channel Fleet?
The admiral carefully took the ladder down to the quarterdeck and walked toward them. To Freddie, Howe looked as if he was near collapse, but his spirit remained undaunted. “Got more of a show than you expected, eh?”
“Indeed, sir,” said Freddie. “Congratulations are in order. You successfully rendered half of the French fleet the passive spectator of the destruction of the other half.”
“Your intelligence was spot on,” said Howe, “and I took full advantage.”
“We were happy to help,” said Donet with a smile, offering his hand to Howe. “’Twas a job well done, Admiral.”
Howe shook Donet’s hand. “If you’ve a mind to depart, we can signal your ship and I’ll have a boat row you out.”
Donet thanked him.
As they looked toward the boat being lowered, Freddie paused and turned back to the admiral. “What news of the grain convoy?”
“None,” said Howe with a frown.
It was then Freddie remembered Danny Barlow. “Sir, might I inquire how the HMS Orion came through the battle? A good friend’s son, Lieutenant Barlow, serves aboard that ship.”
An officer handed a list to the admiral, pointing to one entry.
“The HMS Orion sustained only minor damage to the masts and rigging,” read Howe. “So, we can hope your young Lieutenant Barlow is well and happy to have been a part of so great a victory.”
“Thank you, sir. I do hope that is the case.”
As the admiral moved away to confer with one of his officers, Donet said, “Let’s go home. Zoé will be anxious to know if you’ve managed to cheat death once more, and I, for one, miss my wife and the flowers of Guernsey.”