He laid down the papers and removed his spectacles. “You will, of course, know of Mr. Pitt’s position in this. He believes that the country’s interests are best served by circumspection in this matter, yet he is concerned to appear active and diligent.”
Looks were exchanged around the table. Pitt’s austere, reserved manner hid a keen intelligence, but lost him many friends. His preference in expending gold rather than lives would translate without doubt to tax increases later.
Sir Philip continued smoothly, “The Duke of York’s, er, difficulties in the Austrian Netherlands would seem to make an action of some kind useful in drawing the attention of the regicides westwards.”
Nodding heads around the table showed that the politics were well taken. Not for nothing was the Tory party known as “The King’s Friends.” And these were British troops in Flanders, the only real effectives on the Continent; anything that preserved their strategic presence was welcome.
Leaning back in his chair, Sir Philip said carefully, “It might fairly be said that we are out of luck in the matter of intelligence at this hour, yet we know of a rising in Brittany, attended by more than the usual success.” His face wore a frown, however. “Maréchal du Pons is known to us from the last age, a stiff and unbending soldier, yet he has the trust of the people. I believe we must assist him.”
He paused. Not all present would be keen in such circumstances to put British troops in a subordinate command. “I propose, therefore, a limited engagement of support-say, a battalion of foot and a few guns. If he presently triumphs, as I fervently hope, we will follow this with reinforcements of a more substantial nature. If he fails, we will be able to withdraw with naught but insignificant loss.”
The following morning Duke William sailed into the rendezvous on the ten-fathom line, four miles to seaward of the small fishing port of St. Pontrieux, said to be in Royalist hands.
Kydd was fascinated. Over there was France, his first foreign shore – and it was the enemy! The very thought seemed to imbue the rugged Brittany coastline with menace. Somewhere over the dark hills was a country locked in war with his own. His island soul recoiled from the notion that there was nothing but dry land separating this point from the raving mob in Paris.
The rendezvous was crowded with shipping: nearly a hundred sail, dominated by the three big sail-of-the-line, several frigates and two lumbering transports. The rest were small fry: provisioning craft, water and powder hoys, a host of small sloops and armed cutters. They lay hove to, waiting impatiently for the word to move on the port.
Just before noon a deputation approached in a fishing boat, displaying an outsize white flag – the fleur-de-lis of the Bourbons.
“Haaands to cheer ship!”
As the little boat plunged past, seeking the broad pennant of the Commodore in Royal Albion, men crowded the rigging to cheer, the Captain graciously doffing his hat. The ensign of King Louis’s Navy made its way grandly up to the mizzen peak.
In the boat a cockaded and sashed individual stood erect, waved and bowed, clearly delighted.
Within the hour the big men-o’-war had anchored, the frigates had taken stations to seaward, and the transports prepared to enter port. These would require pilots for the difficult rock-studded entrance, and even so they would then need to lie offshore among myriad islands, the tiny port’s river entrance too difficult to navigate.
The transports got under way, passing close enough for Kydd to watch the redcoats thronging their decks. The thumping of martial music carried over the water.
“Don’t stand there gawpin’, tail on to that fall!” Elkins growled.
The launch eased alongside and the first of the four upper-deck twelve-pounders was readied to be swayed in. A delicate and precise operation, the long cannon, free of its carriage, had to be lowered into the boat that surged below in the slight sea. The slightest ill-timing, and the boat coming up with the waves would meet the mass of iron moving down and the result would be so much splintered wreckage. Lines ran from the yardarms in a complex pattern, balancing movements and loads with the use of tie blocks, guys and mast tackles in a complex exercise of seamanship.
What was surprising to Kydd in this difficult maneuver was that there was silence – no shouted orders. The boatswain controlled the men on the tackles through his mates and their silver whistles. Orders were passed by different patterns of twittering calls: a continuous fluttering warble sounded continuously while lowering, and at the right position a sharp upward squeal told the crew to avast.
It was hard work, and Kydd envied the seamen who waited in the boat.
After dinner the landing party assembled by divisions, two hundred men in their seaman’s rig wearing their field sign – a white band on the left arm. The boats took them ashore, the men happy to be away from shipboard discipline. As the boats approached the landing place, Kydd looked around with interest. There was a wild beauty about it, rocky spurs among tiny beaches, the ragged land interspersed with dark-pink granite outcrops, and the port, a walled city, the ramparts connected to the mainland by an ancient causeway. Adding to the exotic effect was a subtle, exciting foreignness about the houses, the tiny farms and the patterns of cultivation. And the smelclass="underline" after the purity of the sea, the odor of land – a mix of raw earth, vegetation and manure – had a poignant effect on Kydd. It reminded him of the countryside he had left, but it was overlaid with tantalizing alien scents.
On the quayside of the inner harbor the marines were formed up, their lieutenant languidly fanning himself. It seemed the elements were smiling on the enterprise, for the sun was breaking through with unusual brilliance.
“Hold water port, give way starboard – oars; rowed of all!”
The boat glided alongside the quay, oars tossed upright, and the men scrambled ashore, laughing, joking, the novelty of their surroundings refreshing but unsettling.
As soon as Kydd stepped off the boat onto dry land, the solid stone of the quay fell away under his feet. The boat had been perfectly steady, but despite the evidence of his eyes the land felt like the deck of a ship, heaving gently in a moderate swell. Mystified, he shrugged and walked away with a fine seaman-like roll.
From some windows drooped hastily found Bourbon flags, and banners with foreign words that seemed to offer welcome. Small groups of townsfolk gathered to stare at them, the ladies wearing quaint ornate lace headdresses, the men surly and defensive.
Petty officers called them to order: “Form up, then, you useless lubbers. Get in a line or somethin’, fer Chrissake!”
Sailors could be trusted to lay aloft in a gale of wind, but the rigid mechanical movements of military drill were beyond them. A ragged group, they shuffled off. The line of marines on either flank marched crisply, and with more than a touch of swagger.
“Silence in the ranks! Corporal, take charge o’ yer men!” The marine sergeant’s face reddened at the shambles, but the seamen continued to chatter excitedly.
They moved through the narrow streets, the sound of their tramping feet echoing off the roughcast white houses. Windows were flung open and women looked down, throwing a blossom or screeching an incom prehensible invitation. The company emerged into the town square and halted. The previous shore party had prepared the cannon for transport, chocking them into stout farm wagons, which waited for them on one side.
“Stay where you is!” snarled the sergeant, as the sailors began to drift away, gaping at imposing stone buildings. The flanking marines chivvied them back until they stood together in a bored mass.