The Price of Glory (10 page)

“Charette told me.”

Charette again.

“Then Charette is remarkably well informed.”

“He keeps an ear to the ground. He has to, being allied to traitors and scoundrels who are as much enemies to each other as they are to the Republic.”

This was true. And certainly there was a strong whiff of betrayal in the air. But Nathan had other things on his mind. He broke the awkward silence that had fallen between them. “This Charette, what is he like?”

A shrug. “I am not sure I am the right man to tell you. I have only met him twice and both times he was, one might say, preoccupied.”

“Young or old? Soldier or civilian?”

“In his middle thirties, I would say. He comes from La Garnache—on the coast, not far south of here. A nobleman. Old family. A good soldier, I think, though he was a naval officer before the Revolution. He served in the American War, fighting the British.”

“A naval officer?” But why should that surprise him? Perhaps she had a taste for naval officers.

“After the Revolution he emigrated to Germany. He was at Koblenz, with the royal court in exile.”

As was Sara's former husband, the Count of Turenne. They must have known each other. Was this the connection? Useless to speculate. But self-torture once begun was never easy to stop.

“Handsome, brave, dashing … ?”

Bennett shot him a puzzled look. “Well he is not ugly and certainly no coward. He confronted the mob when they stormed the Palace of the Tuileries. Saved the Queen's life, according to some accounts.”

“Marie Antoinette?”

“I believe she was Queen at the time.”

“So he was in Paris in '92 …”

Had Sara met him there? Had they been lovers, even then?

“Strange that he was not arrested.”

“He had connections, I believe. Service friends, men he had fought with in America and were in favour with the Republicans. He was allowed to live on his estates in the Vendée but when the peasants rose up they asked him to lead them. And he agreed, though from what I have heard he had no great hopes of them.”

“Then why … ?”

“If you saw what was happening in the Vendée at that time, you would not need to ask. It was a charnel house. He had no choice.”

“So what are his chances of breaking out of Auray ?”

Bennett considered. “Better than his chances of staying alive if he remains there.”

“And this woman—who calls herself the Countess of Turenne—was she with him?” He tried to keep his voice casual.

“La Renarde? No, she was not. She had been, but she left the day we arrived. For Quiberon.”

“For Quiberon?” There was hope then for all he tried to suppress it.

“To carry a message from Charette to the Royalist commanders—and the British. So I was told.”

Nathan frowned. “Is that not extraordinary, to give such a task to a woman?”

“She is an extraordinary woman.” He regarded Nathan curiously. “You have never met her?” Then he shook his head. “But how could you?”

“I told you, Bennett, I was asked to make enquiry of her—by friends of hers that are in England. She has a son there, a young boy. She will be concerned to know that he is safe and well and with … with friends.”

“Well, maybe you will find her in Quiberon,” said Bennett, “for that is where this business will end, I think. In Quiberon, with their backs to the sea. And God help them, if your ships do not take them off. “

N
ATHAN
BRACED
HIMSELF
against the mizzen shrouds of the
Unicorn
and stared, appalled, at the unfolding tragedy on the shores of Quiberon. Here were all the ingredients of Chaos, plundered from the Book of Revelations. Th under, lightning, strong winds and driving rain; the sea a raging fury and a sky like the wrath of God. And all a mere backdrop to the real drama enacted upon the storm-lashed beaches: the struggling, surging, desperate mass of people: men, women, children, babes in arms, wounded soldiers, half-drowned sailors; ten, twenty, maybe thirty thousand or more, fighting, squabbling, lying down to die or stretching out their arms in supplication to the unrelenting sea.

And the English ships that were their only hope of salvation.

Nathan had taken the
Unicorn
as close in as he dared under her jury rig, for even here in the bay, with the long claw of Quiberon providing some shelter from the pounding seas of Biscay, there was a great risk of shipwreck. He could see the shattered remains of several small boats on the beach and others foundering in the breakers, their timbers stove in, tossed this way and that, the playthings of the waves. The tide was out and much of the shore bristled with rocks, the angry waves crashing against them and exploding high into the air as if in fury at the helpless prey just beyond their reach; and yet Nathan could see people clinging there, others wading out breast-high through the foam: women with babies held high above their heads as the sea broke over them and the lightning flashed and the clouds rolled in from the west. And all around the carnage and debris of defeat: clothing and timber and all the accoutrements of war and its victims: horses, mules and men, floating lifeless upon that terrible tide, like a rehearsal for the Apocalypse.

The
Unicorn
was lying to with her topyards backed and all four of her boats out—it was for this reason Nathan had brought the frigate so close to shore—and he watched anxiously as they heaved and plunged in the breakers just off the reefs, trying to pluck a few souls from the water. Their orders were to take off only the fighting men, so that they might be landed further down the coast to pursue what was clearly a lost cause, but it was impossible to stop the sailors from trying to rescue women and children who had advanced towards them through the waves. The gig found a gap in the rocks and was immediately assailed by a floundering rush from the shore and Nathan watched in anguish as the crew was forced to beat off their helpless supplicants with oars and cutlasses.

“Dear God, how has it come to this?” he shouted to Tully, braced beside him at the rail. But Tully could only shake his head, as perplexed and helpless as he. It was the storm that answered, with a great flash of lightning and the almost instantaneous roar of thunder, mocking the puny belligerence of the guns of Fort Penthièvre on the narrow strip of sand linking the peninsula to the mainland. In the past few days the fort had twice changed hands—and names, for it had been called Fort Sans Culottes by the Republicans in honour of the Paris mob. Held briefly by the Royalists, it had been recaptured in the last twenty-four hours, thanks in large part to the treachery of the very troops sent to defend it.

Treachery, Nathan had learned within hours of his return, was as rife among the Royalists as Bennett had proposed. And the British were not without blame in this regard, for it transpired that the King's chief minister, William Pitt, had ordered the release of over a thousand Republican prisoners to swell the Royalist ranks. Possibly he had imagined that they would uphold the allied cause out of simple gratitude. More likely, that complicated abacus of a brain thought only to save the expense of their accommodation in the prison hulks. Either way, it had been a disastrous decision, for most had waited only until the moment they were set ashore before deserting to the enemy while others, more cunning, had waited until they were installed at Fort Penthièvre before sneaking out after dark and leading the Republicans back along the shore at low tide to take the position where it was least defended. And now General Hoche had his foot firmly planted upon the neck of Quiberon, with the rest of the peninsula at his mercy—and all that were lodged upon it.

On that slender strip of land, barely eight miles long and less than three at its widest point, were huddled an estimated 30,000 souls: the émigrés landed from England, the Chouans who had joined them, and those locals who had reason to fear the Republicans' revenge. Most without food, or water, or shelter. And all looking to God or the British fleet to save them.

From his present perspective Nathan had little faith in either.

“Mr. Holroyd's respects, sir, and
Pomone
is signalling.”

Nathan followed the messenger across the canting deck to where Holroyd and Lamb were huddled, heads together over the signal book. Some short distance to leeward he could see the signals flying from the gaff halyard of the
Pomone
and he waited impatiently for the two officers to agree on a translation. It was not long in coming for the order was a simple one. He was to report aboard the flagship. Its execution, however, was another matter.

“How am I to report,” he complained peevishly to Tully, “when all our boats are out? Would he have me walk on water?”

“I expect he would be content if you were to swim,” Tully assured him and though he smiled his eyes expressed a lively concern, for the Chevalier de Batz was still confined below decks, no longer in chains, but with a marine sentry posted at the door—and there had been no reply, as yet, to Nathan's report on the matter.

.  .  .

“Ah Captain Peake, here you are at last. I believe you have already met Mr. Finch.”

The commodore's greeting was not so very different from when they had last met, but his appearance had changed very much for the worse. His hair hung lank and unpowdered, his jaw was unshaven and there was a hint of desperation in his eyes. Nathan was not at all surprised. Hardly a thing had gone right for him since the fog had lifted on the morning of the
Unicorn
's arrival.

If Sir John Borlase Warren had thought to find glory in his appointment his hopes had been cruelly dashed—and he must surely fear that he would be held accountable for the failure of the enterprise. It occurred to Nathan that his main concern must be to spread the blame as generously as possible and indeed, the commodore's next words confirmed him in this opinion.

“I have read your report on the venture into the Gulf of Morbihan. A pity. A great pity. Had we been able to hold on to Auray for a few days all this might have been avoided.” The commodore gestured vaguely towards the stern windows and the obscure view it provided of the chaos on the beaches. “However, it may not be too late to save the day, if we are prepared to put our duty before any other considerations. Now if I may draw your attention to the chart.” He returned his gaze to the object in question while Nathan considered how he might be held responsible for the fall of Auray. If there was a way, he was sure the commodore would find it. He was clearly out of favour with Mr. Finch, who had not bothered to rise from his chair at Nathan's entrance or return his bow though now he looked more closely this appeared to be prompted by reasons other than discourtesy. Indeed, he rather thought the man was dead until he noted the sheen of sweat upon his pale countenance.

“Good day to you, Mr. Finch,” he greeted him cheerfully as he made his way over to the table, and was rewarded with a glazed eye and something very like a death rattle.

“Here is Penthièvre, or Fort Sans Culottes as the Republicans call it.” Warren indicated the fort at the narrow neck of the peninsula. “Its loss is a grave blow and I fear that until we receive the promised reinforcement from England we are in no position to take it back. Indeed, our main concern at present is that General Hoche will use the fort as a forward base to attack the Royalist lines here at Kerhostin.”

He drew an imaginary line with his finger across the peninsula at a point a little south of the fort. As imaginary as the Royalist lines, so far as Nathan was concerned, for he had seen no physical sign of them.

“I am assured by the Comte de Puisaye that he has sufficient men to mount a creditable defence,” the commodore continued, “and I have no reason to doubt his estimation.” Nathan blinked a little but said nothing in contradiction of this astonishing statement. “However, you will have noticed that at low tide a considerable amount of beach is exposed on the eastern side of the peninsula.” Nathan had. “The concern is that the French—the Republicans—will take advantage of this to outflank de Puisaye's defences, just as they did at Penthièvre. And he has insufficient resource to extend his lines. So—we must provide cover from the sea.”

Which made some sort of sense—if there had been any sea. But at low tide, as Warren must know, it retreated some considerable distance from the land. And with the shoals and rocks it would be impossible to sail a vessel of any size, or weight of broadside, to within a mile of the coast in that vicinity. Add to that the difficulty of operating so close to shore in a near gale and the impossibility of firing the guns with any degree of accuracy … Nathan began to point out some of these difficulties to the commodore but had scarcely begun when he was tersely interrupted.

“What of the
Conquest
—and the squadron you led into Morbihan?” Nathan looked at the chart again, noting the depths of water at the landward end of the peninsula.

“It might be possible,” he conceded. “If the weather abates somewhat and we can find a pilot who knows the shoals about that point.”

“And the pilot who guided you into the Morbihan?”

“I would have to enquire.” Nathan frowned, disadvantaged.

“Then please do, as soon as you feel ready to broach the subject.” Whatever he had lost in elegance, the commodore's sarcasm was sharp as it ever was. “But I fear we cannot wait upon the weather, for I am persuaded General Hoche will permit himself no such luxury. You will have to put on your tarpaulin and your southwester and make the best of things.”

Nathan prepared to make his leave, but Warren had not finished with him yet.

“I understand from your report that you have a number of Chouans aboard.”

“Yes, sir. I thought they would be of more use here than in the Gulf of Morbihan.”