Devil to Pay (4 page)

After a restless night Richard Delancey was awakened by bugles sounding the reveille. He guessed that the sound came from Castle Cornet and that the garrison would stand-to at daybreak. It was still dark when he came on deck but with a lightening of the sky beyond the island of Herm. It was the King's birthday and there was to be a review, he remembered. Afterwards he would be told what he had to do. . . . He shivered, not entirely because of the cold, and wondered whether this was the last week of his life. Ought he to write his will? He dismissed the idea for he had practically nothing to leave. He was well chosen for a perilous mission, he reflected, for he would be missed by no one. He doubted whether the same could be said of Moncrieff, a red-haired Scotsman from what he suspected was a noble family. He liked Moncrieff, however, and envied him his resolute and carefree manner. What he could not understand was the choice of the Vicomte de Mortemart for a supposedly dangerous mission. That young man had seemed nervous, ill at ease, longing only to hear that the mission had been cancelled. He might feel the same himself but he had not, he hoped, allowed his feelings to become so obvious. That was something he had learnt as a midshipman or even before that at school. He paced the deck until it was almost daylight and then went below for breakfast in his cabin. This was his first command of anything larger than a ship's boat and he resolved to make the most of it. He had at least the privilege of breakfasting alone.

He now had the leisure to inspect the
Royalist
from stem to stern. She was a lovely craft built at Dover in 1778, originally called
Diligent
but renamed—obviously by the prince. She measured 151 tons, mounted ten 6-pounders and was established for a crew of 55. Her lines were beautiful, her mast raked at a dashing angle, her paintwork black and cream, her sails almost as white as when new. She had rather the look of a Post-Office packet—that hint of the thoroughbred—and her only fault, according to the boatswain, was a little too much weather helm. By the carpenter's account she leaked hardly at all. Looking along her deck and seeing the guns exactly in line, he thrilled to realise that he was the captain. The paint had flaked off a hatch coaming and he told the carpenter to see to it. The jack had wrapped itself round the jackstaff and he sent a boy to unravel it. He examined the cutter's trim from the other side of the harbour and made a mental note to look at her hull when the harbour dried out. The success of some future operation—and the survival of all his men—might depend upon what he did (or forgot) while the cutter was in harbour. There was much to do and all too little time, he suspected, in which to do it.

The town church clock was striking twelve as Delancey entered D'Auvergne's office overlooking the harbour. Bassett, Moncrieff and Mortemart were already there and D'Auvergne arrived soon afterwards, accompanied by a mousy and ill-dressed civilian he introduced as “Mr A.” Without ceremony he told the others to sit while he uncovered a map of France which was pinned to the wall. As contrasted with his role of the previous day he was now merely a captain in the navy, his manner that of an officer on duty.

“What I have to tell you, gentlemen, is strictly secret, not to be revealed to any living soul outside this room. The French Republicans have an army of some twenty thousand men at St Malo, collected there for an attack, we believe, on Jersey. Lord Moira has nine thousand men here and as many again at Portsmouth, with a fleet of transports under Admiral Macbride. The French royalist forces north of the Loire—the men of the Resistance we might call them—are believed to number about fifty-five thousand, mostly in the vicinity of Angers. . . .” (He pointed to the area on the map). . . . “They would be in still greater strength if they had not been defeated last December at Saveney. Now, our enemies might expect us to reinforce the garrison at Jersey, remembering how that island nearly fell to the French during the last war. But the King's ministers have decided, instead, on a bolder stroke— with, of course, His Majesty's approval. Their plan is to capture Cherbourg with the help of the insurgents. Once that port is in our hands we can land there the cannon, the muskets, the powder and shot which the royalists need. Once their forces join ours, making (say) a hundred thousand in all, we shall be able to reconquer France and restore the monarchy. The success of this masterstroke—and it is nothing less—must depend in the first instance on us, on the men in this room. We have two tasks to perform and each is vitally important. First, we have to contact the French royalists and concert with them the capture of Cherbourg. That task will fall to you, Major Moncrieff. Second, we have to hinder the march from St Malo of the enemy army we know to be there—a force which will be sent, we assume, to recapture Cherbourg. We leave this second task to our friends near St Malo to whom we have already sent the necessary arms and explosives. It will be for you, M de Mortemart, to tell them what to do and when. On the day arranged they will blow up the bridges, fell trees across the road and offer battle as and when they can. A march which, unopposed, might take fourteen days will require three weeks or more. By then our base at Cherbourg will be secure.”

“May we know, sir,” asked Moncrieff, “for what day the landing is planned?”

“On June 12th. I tell you that, gentlemen, in strictest secrecy.” “So my task,” said Moncrieff, “is to ensure that the insurgents capture Cherbourg before the 12th?”

“On the night of the 11th, to be exact. You'll deliver this despatch,” said D'Auvergne, handing it over, “to a royalist leader called ‘C' and you will explain to him the importance of attacking on the exact day. You will then remain with the royalist forces, relying on Mr Delancey to keep you in touch with me.”

“And I suppose,” said Pierre de Mortemart, “that I am to land near St Malo?”

“Yes,” replied D'Auvergne. “You will proceed to Jersey in the schooner
Daphne.
You and Mr A will then use a smaller craft for the actual landing. You will deliver this despatch to a royalist leader called ‘B.' Both landing places will be held by our royalist friends who have already had their instructions from Mr A.”

“May we know,” asked Delancey, “what landing places are to be used?”

“You will land Major Moncrieff at La Gravelle, a cove halfway between Carteret and Pointe du Rozel. Mr A will give you more precise directions.”

“Any further questions?” asked D'Auvergne. After a pause he went on: “Very well, then. The
Daphne
will sail by tonight's tide and Mr A will complete his arrangements when he reaches Jersey. The
Royalist
will sail tomorrow for Alderney, where the other part of the operation will be rehearsed.”

There followed a half hour spent on maps, charts and diagrams, with signals and passwords described. It ended with the arrival of the lieutenant-governor, Major-General John Small, and with him Major-General the Lord Moira. They presented a sharp contrast; Small being an old soldier, straightforward, benevolent and much beloved; Moira, a young man, astute and supercilious, a born aristocrat and as much a politician as a soldier. Tired after reviewing the garrison, Small had little to say beyond uttering words of encouragement. Adding a few words, Moira assured those present that the success of Moncrieff's mission would be followed up with vigour by a landing in force on June 12th. The operation would be covered by an inshore frigate squadron commanded by Sir James Saumarez, a Guernseyman to whom the coast was familiar. Sir James was already cruising between Guernsey and Jersey. Lord Moira then invited questions.

“I have one question, my Lord,” said Moncrieff. “What will you do if I fail to reach the insurgents—if we find the landing place in enemy hands?”

“I shall countermand the whole enterprise,” said Lord Moira. “For success we
must
have a seaport. If our friends in Normandy can't give us Cherbourg we can't give
them
what they most need—artillery. God knows we've had trouble enough over our field pieces and gunners. We've barely sufficient for our purpose. I'd never attempt landing them over an open beach.”

The conference ended on that note but Lord Moira remarked as he left that he would mention his plans, in broad outline, at the coming banquet. D'Auvergne protested about this breach of security but was told that only senior officers would be present and that they'd be told to keep the information to themselves. He looked far from happy about it but said nothing more. The meeting broke up and Major Moncrieff and Delancey left together, walking down to the quayside with the ostensible object of visiting the
Royalist.
They really wanted the chance to talk.

“There's something about this affair that I don't understand,” said Moncrieff. “Why was that fellow Mortemart chosen for a dangerous mission? He is plainly terrified. Why tell secrets at a banquet, with the risk of rumours being spread before the officers are sober again?”

“Why indeed?” Delancey agreed. “And why should we trust ‘Mr A'? I thought him a dubious-looking fellow, as likely to be against us as for us. All the arrangements depend upon him but I have seldom seen anyone for whom I have felt a more instant dislike.”

“I wouldn't trust him a yard,” replied Moncrieff. “I like D'Auvergne, though. I should have thought him too good an officer to be employed ashore.”

“He seems an ideal choice, though, for the work he has to do.”

“That's true enough. And I'm glad that we are to work together, you and I. We'll succeed at La Gravelle even if Mortemart gives himself up or is betrayed by ‘Mr A.'“ Delancey warmly agreed, reflecting that his own liking for Moncrieff had been immediate. He felt instinctively that they could rely on each other.

“You said just now, Major,” said Delancey, “that there is something about the operation that you don't understand. I was just about to say the same thing in almost the same words. I wish to God the whole thing were over and done with.”

“So do I, in a way. But it's our chance to make a name for ourselves. You are more fortunate, no doubt, but I haven't yet been in battle.”

“There will be no battle for me provided that all goes well. If the plan miscarries, however, we are both likely to be captured and executed as spies.”

“Not in uniform, surely?”

“Don't be too sure of that, sir.”

“Anyway, it will be an adventure.”

“Now, about this rehearsal,” said Delancey, “I think we must do it three times at least, once in daylight and twice in the dark. . . .”

Delancey took the
Royalist
to sea with a caution which might not have impressed the experts watching from the breakwater. He cast off at the beginning of the ebb, passed the pier head under his jib alone, hoisted the mainsail a few minutes later and let fall the square topsail only when he was in the roads. The cutter handled beautifully, however, and he soon began to gain confidence. Under a light breeze, he sailed slowly past Herm and set a course for Alderney, not then visible owing to a mist which cleared later, allowing him to head for the west side of the island, avoiding the Swinge and keeping well clear of the Coque Lihou and the Noire Roque. With the wind dying away he brought the cutter into Longy Bay and dropped anchor there with a mild sense of achievement. He could remember these waters well enough, he found, and had recognised the hanging Rock at a glance. Could he have done it on a moonless night? Possibly, but he was not so sure.

After due warning to the garrison of Fort Essex and Raz Island, Delancey staged his exercises at the Nunnery. For the second daylight rehearsal he assumed that the enemy had been warned and had laid an ambush. The exercise was one involving a withdrawal under fire. In view of this possible contingency the longboat mounted a three-pounder gun in the bows. There was a separate exercise and target practice in which this weapon was fired as the boat was rowed out stern-foremost. Then the exercise was done once more but firing grape shot with a half charge of powder, the enemy being represented by a few empty barrels. In the final phase the exercises were repeated at night, sentries ashore being told to report any sounds that they heard. “This must all be done in
silence,”
Delancey insisted. “Our lives may depend upon it!” He and Moncrieff were hard to please but the point was reached when even they were satisfied. Delancey found then that he was even beginning to gain confidence as a leader. Convincing his men that the work was vital he had forgotten to wonder what they were thinking of him. Moncrieff was a tower of strength on every occasion, quick to learn, confident and level-headed, always firm and never angry. Delancey was supremely fortunate, he realised, in his military colleague. He was lucky again in having an independent command. Had there been a more senior officer present, and one with a poor opinion of Delancey, he might have gone to pieces before the night of the actual landing. As things were he became more resolute every day Because Moncrieff believed in him he was beginning to believe in himself. He had also established his authority over Burrows, the master's mate, Rankin the boatswain and Warren the midshipman. For the first time in his life he felt that he was really in command.

On the evening of the 7th the last preparations were completed, arms inspected and stores checked. Delancey then told his men what they had to do. “Our task is to land Major Moncrieff at a small French harbour called La Gravelle. The place should be in the hands of French loyalists who are our friends and who expect us. We shall not be fired upon if all goes well. But we can't be quite sure of that. When our boats go in, therefore, our guns will be ready to cover their withdrawal and we ourselves will be armed and ready to defend ourselves. Don't shoot without orders, though. Our plan is to do what we have to do in silence and be gone again before daylight.” All hands were now given a double rum issue and then, after dark, the capstan was manned and the orders given to heave away. As soon as the anchor was a-peak Delancey called out, “Hoist the mainsail!” The men toiled on the halyards and the great sail rose and filled. “Hoist the jib!” was the next order, followed by another to the topmen, “Let fall! Sheet home!” The topsail filled in its turn, the cutter answered the helm and headed out of the bay with the waves breaking over the rocks on either side. Alderney disappeared from sight in a matter of minutes and they were alone in the darkness. Under easy sail in a light breeze, the
Royalist,
towing the longboat, slid silently through the water. It was pitch dark and Delancey had the leadsman at work as soon as he had lost sight of Alderney Approaching the enemy coast he should have felt nervous but the mere complexity of his problem kept him from thinking of any but navigational dangers. He had about 23 miles to cover and he calculated that a westerly wind and flood tide would enable him to make his landfall at about two next morning. The breeze tended to die away before midnight but freshened later. Presently the lookout in the bows reported that he could see land. It was another half hour before Delancey could see anything himself, but the dark shape of the land looked as it should do and the water was shoaling gradually as might be expected. This was La Gravelle—he felt certain of it—and a deepening of the water showed that he was in the channel. “Breakwater ahead!” said the lookout quietly and Delancey gave orders to drop the anchor. This procedure was unavoidably noisy and would certainly be audible to anyone ashore who might be awake. So Delancey ordered the man with the lantern (concealed until now) to make the signal as arranged. There was no signal in reply. As against that, there was no alarm given either. There could have been starshell lighting the target and a volley of small-arms. Delancey did not expect artillery fire, however, because the hamlet was not on a proper road. . . . After a tense five minutes he gave orders to man the longboat. This was done quickly and silently with six seamen at the oars and two forward with the three-pounder. There were four marines, two of them forward. In the sternsheets were Delancey himself, Major Moncrieff, and—in charge of the boat—Mr Warren. With muffled oars the boat silently approached the jetty, passed along its landward side and found the steps just where they were shown to be on Mr A's diagram.