Chapter 3: Witnessing history (June 1815)

HMS Clyde, 44, was lying hove-to a mile off La Tranche-sur-Mer on the coast of the Vendee, waiting for the small flotilla of boats to reach the small port to unload yet another company of royalist soldiers. The Vendee, ever royalist, was resisting Napoleon’s claims to the French throne, and with other royalist risings fizzling out, had become a rallying point. The Royal Navy was doing its best to ferry as many soldiers as possible into the region, and Clyde was part of the effort. The reasoning, as explained by Sir Henry Hotham, was not so much to reconquer France from this bridgehead, but rather to force the French army to commit troops to the suppression of the unrest, which in turn would not be available for Napoleon’s main Army of the North, currently assembling and threatening the British and allied troops at Brussels.

The available British ships of Hotham’s squadron were stretched rather thinly along the coast, but only a few small ships of the French were opposing them, most of them undermanned due to Napoleon’s need for soldiers. A small French sixth-rate, which had tried to escape from Les Sables d’Olonne, an imperialist stronghold on the coast, had surrendered to Clyde in early May, after a single broadside fired, and Thomas had found that her hapless captain had barely enough hands to handle the sails.

Over his musings, the boats had reached the beach and the royalists were disembarking. After a short time, the boats cast off again and headed back for the ship. Thomas watched them, but his mind was not quite there. He had been two weeks without mail, without letters from Mirabel. In her last letter, dated May 5th, she had written that everything was fine. She and Angela were getting along famously, and Harriet-Anne visited frequently. A midwife from Guildford had been retained, and Mirabel expected the child to arrive any day. Hence, Thomas was anxiously awaiting news from home.

Now the boats had hooked onto the chains and the men climbed up to the deck. Under Mr. Jackson’s supervision, longboat and cutter were lifted onto their cradles and secured. After watching the Royalists marching inland for a few more minutes, Thomas snapped his telescope shut and turned to his 1st lieutenant.

“Mr. Harvey, let’s brace the yards and stand off the coast again. Once the ship’s under way, you can dismiss the free watch.”

“Aye-aye, Sir,” Harvey responded neutrally.

The men manned the braces and swung the yards around. The sails filled again, and Clyde got under way to reach a point five sea miles out from the coastline. They would once again patrol the coastline from Noirmoutier in the North to the Ile de Ré in the South, a little less than 100 nautical miles, roughly a day in each direction. South of their patrol area, Captain Maitland in the Bellerophon, 74, had joined them and was watching over the southern approaches to La Rochelle and over Rochefort. To the North, Hotham with his ships was controlling the Loire estuary and the southern coast of Brittany. Some smaller vessels were sailing along the coast, delivering Hotham’s orders, the latest news from the Continent, and also, sometimes, the personal mail. Thomas made a decision.

“Mr. Harvey, we’ll be sailing towards Noirmoutier. Can’t let the French predict our movements.”

Harvey nodded. “Aye-aye, Sir. I wonder when they’ll send more ships, Sir.”

“Yes, that would be a relief. The ships from the North American station should be back by now. Then again, they’re probably ferrying every man who can hold a musket to the Dutch coast.”

“Of course, Sir,” Harvey sighed.

Thomas was feeling a bit of a bad conscience. His decision to sail north was borne of the desire to get mail, and since the dispatch ships from Hotham would come from the North, he had decided to delay his southward patrol. Anyway, he reasoned, nothing would suit the French better than a predictable schedule for their patrols.

Once Clyde was on her way north, Thomas went aft to his cabin where Pillard was waiting with a late breakfast. His cabin stores were still plentiful, and Pillard had already proven to be a very good steward. This morning, he had fresh eggs from the small flock of chickens that were kept in a coop on the poop deck. Fed with bread crumbs and weevils from the bread sacks, they were doing quite well, even allowing him to provide fresh eggs to the wardroom once every week. Fried bacon, buttered hard tack from his private, weevil-free stores, and a strong coffee completed a breakfast that left nothing to desire, save for Mirabel sitting across from him.

After breakfast, he dictated a report of the successful landing of the royalists to Mr. Leeds, after which they went over the weekly reports from the wardroom members. Nothing was amiss there, and soon Thomas released the young Leeds to attend class with the sailing master. Since his gunroom was not well manned, Thomas had Leeds go watches under the lieutenants and the sailing master, to start him on the way to becoming a midshipman. The young man had not only a good handwriting, he was also quick-minded and had a good grasp of geometry. In the long-ago battle against the An-Nasr he had also shown bravery and a cool head. It was quite possible that Owen Leeds might one day get commissioned, and if that happened, with his father’s backing, he would soon be on the way to a command. It was better to give him the necessary schooling now.

Once alone, Thomas left his cabin and walked his quarterdeck. When Clyde had undergone revision in ‘10, her quarters had been enlarged to accommodate a flag officer and staff. This had shortened the free area on her quarterdeck, but Thomas still enjoyed walking to and fro, keeping his legs exercised. His officers knew not to interrupt him when he was on his walks, and he used them to clear his mind and to plan his next activities. Today, however, there was an interruption.

“Boat ho!” the lookout sang out. “Coming out from St. Jeels, Sir, fishin’ boat, ketch-rigged!”

The man meant the twin towns of Saint Gilles-Croix de Vie which straddled the estuary of the small River Vie. The small harbour in the river mouth was used by fishing boats only, and one of those was indeed heading for Clyde. The boat was far too small to constitute a threat for the big frigate, but Thomas had the Marines roused nonetheless. Somebody in that ketch was now hoisting a fleur-de-lis flag, identifying the crew as royalists.

“Wonder what they want, Sir Thomas,” Harvey said by his side.

“Maybe some official wants to talk to us?” Thomas hazarded. “We’ll know soon enough, Mr. Harvey.”

Indeed, twenty minutes later, the ketch hove to, a pistol shot away from them. The captain of the vessel, to guess by his blue coat, raised a speaking trumpet.

“Vive le Roi!” he shouted.

“Vive le Roi, monsieur!“ Thomas hailed back.

“May I come aboard?” the captain shouted in French.

“Yes, with pleasure, Sir!” Thomas answered in the same language, desperately trying to recall the long-ago French lessons he had received whilst growing up in Guildford.

The captain climbed down into his dinghy, and his lone oarsman piloted him to Clyde‘s side. Minutes later, he stood on the deck, looking about interestedly.

“A beautiful ship, Captain. The Loire, isn’t it?”

“Her name’s Clyde now, sir, Monsieur,” Thomas answered. “Do you know her?”

“Yes, I sailed in her, before the first peace,” the captain answered. So he had once been in the crew of the former Loire, before she was captured and renamed by the British.

“I hope the memory doesn’t hurt?” Thomas inquired politely. “But how can I help you, my captain?”

“No, how can we help you?” the captain asked with a smile. “Do you wish for fresh meats and vegetables?”

Now the captain was talking business. He wanted to sell them fresh produce.

“We also produce a good wine,” he continued.

Thomas looked at his officers. “Gentlemen, the captain offers us fresh foods and wines.”

Moments later, and to Thomas’s surprise, Mr. Mercer took over the negotiations in fairly fluent French. Thomas also had Pillard called on deck so he could look after the needs for cabin stores. Predictably, the French captain did not accept banknotes, but then again, they had found French coinage in the captured ship some weeks ago, and soon Mr. Mercer had struck a deal and sealed it with a handshake.

Whilst Clyde lay hove-to, the ketch sailed back to the harbour. After perhaps two hours, she emerged again and headed back to Clyde‘s side. For the next hour or so, wine casks, hams and other delicacies where hoisted onto Clyde‘s deck, and the French captain, whose name was Monsieur Cremant, happily collected the payment. He admitted that the townspeople were quite worried over the imperial Army of the West under General Lamarque that was assembled to break their resistance. Once that happened, their food stores would be requisitioned anyway. Having the monies from the sale, it would also be easier for those of them, who had to fear the Bonapartists’ wrath, to flee.

When Clyde resumed her northward course, Thomas dictated another report, advising his admiral of the opportunity to victual his ships at Saint Gilles-Croix de Vie.

By late afternoon, Noirmoutier came into sight, and west of it, the sails of a sloop. Another half hour later, the sail was recognised as HM sloop Seagull, one of the dispatch ships employed by Hotham. Recognition signals were exchanged, and then Seagull signalled the long-awaited ‘Have mail’. Thomas found himself fidgeting near the lee shrouds, waiting for the boat to return from the sloop, until finally it hooked on and the mailbag was delivered to Mr. Harvey. It was torture for Thomas to stand still and wait for Harvey to identify the smaller mailbag inside addressed to Thomas. He handed it to young Leeds who, quite aware of his captain’s impatience, rushed aft and to the cabin. When Thomas followed him, he found his personal letters already set aside, a penknife with open blade ready for opening the envelopes.

“Let me know if there’s anything important in the dispatches, Mr. Leeds!” Thomas told him before sitting down at his desk. He immediately recognised Mirabel’s handwriting on the uppermost letter and opened it quickly. The letter was dated May 17th. He flew over the writing hurriedly. Yes, he was a father! Mirabel had given birth to a healthy girl on the 14th, a Sunday, after 14 hours of labour, but she assured him of her wellbeing and recovery. He heaved an enormous sigh of relief, and read the letter more carefully. Mirabel had woken up during the night, near 3 o’clock, from the first contractions. From then on, it took over ten hours to early afternoon until her water broke, and then another three and a half hours until little Margaret Angela Harriet Grey uttered her first tentative cry. Yes, they had already settled on names for a girl and a boy, and his little daughter was named after his and Mirabel’s mother, her adopted mother of course. Angela would serve as godmother, and so would Harriet-Anne, hence the second and third names.

The baptism was already planned for Sunday, May 21, and Mirabel expected many visitors. She also wrote how happy she was and how she was looking forward to seeing him again, the ‘best husband in the World’ as she named him. His conscience prickled him a little over having left his wonderful wife in a time when she would have needed his support.

There were letters from Angela and from Harriet-Anne, too, both of them retelling the events from their own perspectives and praising Mirabel’s steadfastness and bravery during a long and arduous birth. Damn it! He missed Mirabel, he missed his friends. Damn Buonaparte and his accursed ambition! Would it take another nine years to subdue the man again?

Then his optimism returned. The Duke of Wellington would stop Napoleon’s advance and end his reign, once and for all. Thomas would return to his home and, together with Mirabel, raise his daughter. He already had a daughter whom they loved dearly, he chided himself. The better! He would raise both of his daughters then and enjoy the fruits of his toils.

Another thought struck him then. His officers knew of the impending birth, and some of them even knew Mirabel. He shuffled the letters together and placed them in his desk drawer. Taking his hat, he stepped out from his cabin and onto the quarterdeck.