Vittoria

By Derek Cheney

Vittoria has been written as a sequel to The Leopard Wakes which is an adventure/romance novel covering the Napoleonic wars from 1803 onwards. "Vittoria" starts at the disastrous retreat from Corunna, Spain, in January 1809. The main players are as follows:-

1. Artillery captain Jonathan West. He is attracted to Julia Brooks, a London socialite who does not know her own mind. Jonathan, despite being injured at Corunna, is still idealistic about pursuing the war against Napoleon and is influenced by his uncle, a colonel in the war department. For this reason he returns to Spain on special duties and then as a serving officer with his regiment.

2. Julia Brooks, sole daughter of a Chelsea broker. She is an accomplished horsewoman and has a wide circle of friends in England and Ireland.Initially she is attracted to Jonathan but her affection wavers during his prolonged absences in Spain and Portugal. Julia is swept off her feet by a family friend Hector Grant who becomes Jonathans commanding officer.

3. Hector Grant, widower and family friend of the Brooks family. He is an ambitious regular officer who succeeds in obtaining command of the horse artillery regiment and tries to steal Julias affections from Jonathan. Not popular with his men he is a blatant womaniser and has a dubious reputation at the gaming tables. He always sees Jonathan as a rival and this is reflected in his attitude to his junior officer.

4. Jacqueline Duval, daughter of a judge in Bordeaux. She is grateful to Jonathan, initially, for her rescue from Spanish guerrillas but this emotion becomes something more interesting between the two of them and the ending of the book is not what the reader might expect

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 3, 2001
• ISBN: 9781462826162

Derek Cheney

Derek Cheney completed three years of his national service in the British Royal Navy serving as a commissioned officer in the Volunteer Reserve. He is interested in military history, sailing and writing and lives with his wife, Margaret, at St. Mawes, Cornwall in the southwest of England. He discovered that much has been written of Trafalgar and Waterloo but little has been said of other military adventures of the Napoleonic period. Many people have heard of Sir John Moore and Corunna without realising the background details which led to this earlier British "Dunkirk" type of evacuation. Derek lays great emphasis on the factual content of historical fiction and regards accuracy in this respect as paramount. A sequel the "The Leopard Wakes" continuing the adventures of Captain Jonathan West has now been written and covers the remainder of the Peninsular War from 1809 to 1813. It is entitled "Vittoria" and will also be available from Xlibris, Philadelphia.

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Copyright © 2000 by Derek Cheney.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

The author wishes to acknowledge, with thanks, the information obtained from the Archivist at the Royal Artillery Museum at Woolwich, England and from Napier’s contemporary work The War in the Peninsula. Also to Ronnie Howard, mainstay of the local sailing club and who kindly taught the writer how to use his brand new word processor.

CHAPTER 1

The barque was making slow progress off the French coast and the weather was deteriorating rapidly. Storm clouds were gathering from the west as Captain Burke made his way slowly to the wheel deck to check the compass course and to confer with the first lieutenant who was standing by the helmsman. The deck was beginning to pitch unevenly as the helmsman called out the course of norwest by north, adding that the wheel was becoming more difficult to handle.

Getting worse, Sir. Duty watch aloft and raise topsails? The young lieutenant was staring aloft at the increasing press of canvas overhead. He gave a quick glance towards the port beam and asked the question.

Aye, and slacken off the main sheet and put another hand to the wheel, we may have to reef in before long. The captain nodded and moved off towards the companionway carefully trying to avoid the huddle of bodies that was still lying or propped up on the main deck. Some were heavily bandaged but all were dirty, emaciated and dishevelled, the mixed uniforms of the soldiers difficult to pick out, one from the other. The bosun’s whistle shrilled out, hoarse commands were issued and the duty watch began to swarm aloft towards the upper yards.

Captain Burke had other things on his mind as he made his way towards the cabin occupied by two artillery officers, one heavily bandaged around neck and shoulders and the other reclining moodily on his bunk. Burke stopped at the cabin door and peered inside. Major Stockton, isn’t it? You appear to be the senior officer on board.

Stockton stared back at the naval captain. One other, I believe, a major in the Rifles … There’s a bunch of them, probably on the deck just below us. He tried to grin as he introduced his companion. This is Captain West, same regiment as myself, Royal Horse Artillery.

Captain Burke glanced briefly at the artillery captain and nodded. It’s a miracle that we managed to get you off at Corunna and most of you will have to fend for yourselves. We will give you what help that we can but army men will be your responsibility. Rations are scarce, one meal a day only per man, free space is nonexistent and we are still in French waters.

Stockton’s jaw tightened and he stared back at the captain. How long will it take to get to England do you suppose? We have sick men on board that need medical help.

Burke paused. Two more days perhaps, depending on the weather and the French of course, we are not so far from La Rochelle. Doctor James is here if needed. The vessel shivered and lurched once more into increasingly heavy seas as the captain made his excuses and moved off to attend to more pressing matters elsewhere.

Jonathan West stirred uneasily and glanced at his commanding officer Damned uncomfortable by the sound of it … my bloody shoulder. He grimaced and lapsed into silence again as Alan Stockton swung his legs over his bunk and lowered himself gingerly on to the heaving deck

Might keep the French in port, though, if they’ve got any sense. You stay here and I’ll see what’s going on. Must find the heads, or whatever they call the bogs. He staggered through the narrow door and left his companion to reflect on what had happened during the past few days.

Corunna had been hell and the events of the previous weeks during the long retreat had been even worse, treacherous winter conditions of mud, slush, snow and ice over poor mountain roads had added to the misery of the small British army fleeing before the overwhelming force of the large French army led by Napoleon himself. Men had fallen, not in combat, but by sheer exhaustion, lack of supplies and want of shelter. That the French were suffering the same conditions was of small comfort to Sir John Moore’s troops as they retreated towards Corunna and the relieving British fleet that they had expected to be waiting for them.

The fleet had been delayed by winter gales and, as the survivors filed into the Spanish port, an empty anchorage was there to greet them; there were no troop transports and no Royal Navy escort vessels to be seen. The French were still pressing hard and Sir John Moore drew up two lines of defence along the parallel range of hills encircling Corunna. The action, when it came, had been severe. Loss of life had been heavy on both sides as the seasoned French veterans had made repeated assaults on the British lines but without success. The red coats stood firm and by evening the cream of the French army, itself heavily mauled, had retreated to a safe distance from the battlefield. The popular and respected British general had, however, been killed and Jonathan had also lost his long standing friend, James MacGregor, a brother officer in the artillery.

By this time the relieving fleet had arrived in the harbour and hasty embarkation of the exhausted troops during the night had ensured that most of the army had got safely away by daybreak. Now one day later Jonathan West, himself badly injured in back and shoulder, was trying to take stock of the situation. It would be good to get out of this hell hole, to reach dry land and to see friends and family again. Julia, yes Julia, what would she be doing now, and thinking. Julia Brooks, his intended wife of twelve months standing. Dark haired, vivacious, sparkling blue eyes, socialite and accomplished horsewoman. Did she miss him and what would a bloodily contested war in Spain and Portugal mean to her. She would know that Napoleon had to be beaten and that he had to be beaten on land. The British fleet controlled the seas but French troops straddled Europe and they were the masters there. She also knew that her intended husband was a professional soldier and he could be sent to Spain or Portugal or anywhere else in the wide world that the powers that be chose to send him. Their family backgrounds were similar and parental blessing had been given on both sides but their worlds were poles apart; hers the hectic socialising life of London and Galway and his the demanding life of an artilleryman on active service in a strange land. An experience that had changed the gangling son of a westcountry squire into a hardened veteran, used to danger and excitement together with anxiety and hardship. He had seen death in combat at close quarters and was now experiencing the injury and pain that went with it.

Jonathan had changed considerably but how about Julia? She was still young, just on twenty, and she had a considerable zest for life. Very popular with her large circle of friends and admirers and, in her own way, used to excitement and danger when hunting on the west coast of Ireland; the stone walls of Galway could wreak havoc with horse and rider alike. Jonathan smiled wrily at the thought: they still had something in common, excitement and danger, and he looked forward to meeting her again.

Not only Julia. There were members of his family that he had not seen for many months. His father, Jack, the ailing squire of Grangefylde Manor in Dorset, Sara his sister, chatelaine at the manor, and Timothy his younger brother who was helping on the estate. Not forgetting, how could he, his French born grandmother, Marie Jewell who lived in the dower house close to the manor. England was at war with France but Marie was a staunch royalist and she disapproved of Napoleon and everything that he stood for. She had a mind of her own and was not averse to letting everybody else know all about it.

Last but not least was Jonathan’s uncle, Colonel Robert Jewell, Marie’s only son. Bob Jewell, newly married and newly retired from the Hussars had been injured, captured and exchanged by the French after an abortive raid in the south of Italy. Retirement had come hard to the ebulliant, womanising, Colonel and Jonathan was anxious to find out how sedentary life, and married life at that, was affecting his late mother’s brother. Alice Jewell had married Sir John West and had assisted in running their Jamaican plantation before succumbing to cholera a few years after Timothy was born. Amiable and liberal minded Sir John, widely referred to as Jack, had subsequently sold his holding in Jamaica and had brought his three children back to England to be educated and he had also taken over the running of the family estate of Grangefylde in South Dorset. Jonathan thought, with some nostalgia, of the pleasant days he had previously spent in that, seemingly, far off place. His reverie was broken by Alan Stockton’s return to their cramped, ill lit cabin.

Some of ‘A’ and ‘B’ Troop are on board and the rest are on Primrose which sailed ahead of us. We were one of the last to get away from Corunna and the fleet has been scattered during the night, it looks as though we have lost touch with the other vessels. Jonathan had been unconscious when carried on board the transport and he was slowly getting back to grips with reality.

What of the guns and horses?

Stockton stroked his four day growth of beard and his face hardened. Bad situation, about four guns and limbers on board Primrose and one gun only on this vessel. Such stores as we had were left behind and all horses were put down at the quayside, it was done quickly and mercifully, thank God.

Jonathan digested this information and the enormity of the situation began to dawn on him. He was aware that MacGregor had been reported killed and that his overlarge Irish orderly O’Rourke had probably saved his life and had been the prime mover in bringing him on board this transport. He stared at Stockton in disbelief. Any of our officers here with us?

No one else, they are either on Primrose or still missing. We shan’t find out until we get to England. Just met Burke again, the wind is veering to the north and making life more difficult for him. I believe that he’s a religious man, he must be praying that this blow will not be of long duration.

Amen to that grunted Jonathan. He shifted uncomfortably into a fresh position on his bunk and dozed off into a fitful sleep, recalling events which were best not remembered.

By the following morning the storm had abated and the wind had veered again, more to the North East. Taking advantage of the better conditions the Captain had ordered more sail aloft and, although tired, he was in a better frame of mind as he met Stockton on the main deck. Still no sign of the others but, all being well, we should sight the Scillies within twenty four hours. Then you can get those poor beggars to hospital where most of them belong. One death in the night, a rifleman. Doctor James and a Major Mountford, I believe, are attending to matters at this minute … Hello, what’s that?

The lookout, posted at the main mast, had called out sail ahead, fine off the starboard bow. One of ours I expect Captain Burke grunted Should be on the same course as ourselves. Lieutenant Price emerged from the main companionway and Burke turned to his deputy Maybe one of the fleet ahead of us but keep a weather eye on it. Price acknowledged the order and went forward to confer with the lookout whose spyglass was trained on the distant horizon.

By now a ripple of interest was spreading around the upper deck and soon it was obvious that the other vessel was on a converging course with the overburdened British transport. Frigate rig, Sir, could be French at that. Price had reported to his captain who had moved to the starboard rail, spyglass in hand. Four miles off and keeping a steady bearing

Burke observed the frigate for a few minutes. She could be gaining on us. He scowled anxiously at Lieutenant Price I’ll not take the risk, change course to due west and put on every stitch of canvas you can find.

Soon the barque Pembroke was making good progress with a following wind and Stockton had joined the Captain on the main deck; a motley throng of soldiers and crew was gathering by the stern rails to watch the distant vessel which was now dead astern. What do you make of it, Sir?

Burke still held the spyglass, Dunno, but she’s acting mighty suspicious. Can’t make out her colours yet, we’re trying to outrun her. Here take a look.

Stockton took the proferred telescope and examined the chasing frigate. What if she’s French, we could be in trouble couldn’t we?

Aye, we could, if she catches us. We can run but not fight, the six pounders were stripped out of her before we left England to make more room. Yon stern chaser is the only gun on board. Burke pointed towards the half pound cannon which had been left mounted by the stern rails.

Slowly it was becoming apparent that the chasing warship was overhauling the fleeing barque and the lookout’s cry of tricolour at the masthead confirmed the captain’s worst fears. A puff of smoke at the bows of the frigate was followed by the fall of shot although it was well astern.

Captain Burke stared aloft but there was nothing to be done, all sails were set and well trimmed. Pembroke was a fast vessel but heavily laden and the Frenchman was faster. It was only a matter of time. Burke’s shoulders slumped and he shook his head as he awaited the inevitable challenge. Another shot was fired from the frigate’s bow and this time the splash of water was nearer.

Warning shots, she’ll be on our beam within the hour. Any of your men speak French? Stockton had returned the spyglass.

Indeed, Captain West is fluent, French grandmother living in England … Royalist, of course.

Captain Burke grunted, Like enough we shall have need of him, meanwhile we’ll give Frenchy a run for his money. Price, get the stern chaser crew in action. A hive of activity followed, the onlookers at the stern were scattered and the rear gun was hauled back ready for loading.

Stockton was standing near the gun captain who had ordered the swabbing out process to begin. What’s the range of that popgun?

The leading hand turned and grimaced Five hundred yards, maybe more with skip shot. He eyed the army major curiously, Bloody useless against a froggie, all our six pounders are back at Plymouth. He spat in disgust and Stockton nodded

Our gun is lashed below with the baggage; no time to get it mounted for action. Good luck, see what you can do with that one. He nodded again and returned to the cabin.

Jonathan West had emerged from slumber and was preparing to come out on deck when he bumped into Alan Stockton. What’s going on?

Stockton steadied his colleague by his arm. Whoa there, you need to take it easy. Frenchman on our tail and overhauling fast. I’ll help you on deck, we may have need of your help.

Another shot from the frigate had fallen astern, but nearer again this time. The gun captain at the stern chaser lit the port fire and thrust the taper to the touch hole. The small cannon shuddered and recoiled, a cloud of grey smoke belched from the muzzle and the ball skipped across the water towards the pursuing Frenchman. It had fallen short and the gun crew prepared to load again. Captain Burke watched with growing anxiety. Another puff of smoke was seen from the frigate’s bow and this time they had found the range; the ball crashed into the Pembroke’s stern, the rail timbers shattered and wood splinters swept the after deck. The gun had overturned on its mounting and the three man crew was lying beside it in an ever growing pool of blood.

Captain Burke made his decision. He turned to his first lieutenant who was standing by the wheel This is downright murder. Heave to and strike the colours. We’ll have to take what comes … and get James to see to those men over there.

The bosun’s whistle shrilled again, the sails were backed and the white ensign was lowered from the jack-staff, Pembroke had turned into the wind and was wallowing gently in the swell to wait the arrival of the Frenchman. A group of Highlanders, still armed, were loading their muskets under the orders of their sergeant and were spotted by the Captain. Avast there, there’ll be no shooting, she could blow us to hell and back, put those weapons down. Profanities followed in rich Scottish accents but, reluctantly, and taking their time, the Highlanders accepted the order and, one by one, the firearms were lowered to the deck.

The frigate had, however, seen the barque’s manoeuvre and the lowering of the ensign and she had ceased firing. She was now turning to heave-to close to the Pembroke’s port beam but her gun ports were still open and a battery of menacing black muzzles was pointing menacingly towards the transport’s hull. The French captain was examining the English ship carefully and a junior officer was standing with a loud hailer at the ready. He was not a linguist and the staccato flow of French was lost on Captain Burke and his officers. The meaning was plain, however, Pembroke was being seized and the Captain had no option but to surrender.

By now Jonathan and Alan Stockton had joined the main deck and Burke thrust a loud hailer into Jonathan’s hand. You can speak the lingo, they tell me. Just see what they want. He stood grimly, staring across the narrow strip of water at his opposite number.

The French captain was polite and professional. After ascertaining the Pembroke’s port of departure and destination he made it clear that the British barque was to be escorted to Brest and an armed prize crew was to be put on board. No resistance was to be offered by anyone on board and appropriate measures would be taken if any violence occurred. The captain of Lorraine did not elaborate on these measures but the six pound guns trained on the barque’s deck and port side were sufficient warning in themselves. Captain Burke had no option other than to agree to the Frenchman’s terms and soon a cutter was alongside and a lieutenant and six armed matelots were scaling the rope ladder that had been dropped at the gangway by the Pembroke’s bosun.

The immaculate lieutenant stared around the main deck, his expression a mixture of horror and disgust at the scene spread before him. Dirty, dishevelled soldiers, many of them wounded, were lying on deckboards or propped up against bulkheads and deck fittings and Doctor James could be seen with an orderly attending to the three bodies still lying by the damaged stern. He turned to Jonathan, So this is what we did to you at Corunna. I assure you, Sir, that our gaols will not be any worse … I fancy that they will be a lot better. Jonathan did not reply but gave Captain Burke the translation.

Tell him to keep his comments to himself. We are under his command, what are his orders? The weary captain was in no mood to bandy words, neither did he relish the prospect that lay before him and the ship’s company. His wife was pregnant with a second child and waiting for him in Plymouth, his ship had been commandeered for the Corunna evacuation and Spain was not on his regular run. Swansea, Newport and Cork were his usual destinations.

Jonathan conferred again with their captor who, by now, had stationed his armed men at vantage points around the upper deck, their muskets at the ready. Their cutter is being returned to the frigate but Lieutenant Davy and his men will remain on board. The wind at present is unfavourable and it will take more than twenty four hours to reach Brest. We are to follow the frigate which will lead us to the dockyard and impoundment. He has stressed again that there is to be no resistance … Lorraine is faster than we are and she is heavily armed. We are not.

Burke stared heavily at the French officer, then shrugged his shoulders and prepared to issue orders to the bosun before Jonathan interrupted him. Lieutenant Davy had made one more request. He wishes to know what accommodation is available for himself and his men.

Jonathan managed to keep a straight face but the captain had had enough. Tell him there is none and tell him and his men to keep awake while they are on board. It will be dark ere long and the weather could get foul again by nightfall. Anything could happen.

The frigate had moved away from Pembroke’s beam and had tacked to port, she was making headway and was moving ahead of the barque. Captain Burke issued similar orders to the ship’s bosun and soon the transport was keeping station at half a mile distance from the Frenchman.

To Jonathan’s surprise he found Lieutenant Davy not unreasonable. He was of similar age, of Breton stock and had an aunt living at Autun, the birth place of Jonathan’s grandmother. He was doing a job for the Republican Navy of France but he would have still served in the Navy if France had retained the Monarchy. Politics were of little interest to Michel Davy, he was a sailor and seafaring was in his blood.

Davy regarded the lanky, good looking, artillery captain intently but he was smiling slightly as he compared their respective conditions and situations. So at the moment we are the victors and you are the vanquished, the fortunes of war, who knows what tomorrow will bring. Jonathan chose not to reply to the philosophical Frenchman but made his excuses and made his way back to the cabin, the past two hours had weakened him and he sat down gratefully on his bunk. Stockton was not to be seen and soon Jonathan was in a deep, untroubled, slumber, carried away by overwhelming mental and physical exhaustion.

The seas were calm, the wind had dropped slightly and had backed to the north-west. It was a favourable zephyr to reach Brest in better time and Lorraine changed tack to take advantage of the new conditions, Pembroke followed suit and maintained her station as before. Only the visibility had deteriorated, mist patches had formed and it was becoming more difficult to see more than one mile. A trawler with French markings had emerged from the fog bank and had passed within hailing distance of the frigate. The crew had waved at the Tricolour hoisted at the stern and had stared in curiosity at the barque following close behind; a crowded vessel that was carrying no ensign. A shout from the trawler was unanswered and soon she disappeared astern in a swirling bank of mist. Captain Burke had met Alan Stockton on the main deck, he was not unmindful of the changed weather conditions but he was very mindful of two armed matelots who were conferring a few yards away.

What do you think? It could be interesting if this fog continues, perhaps we could give them the slip Stockton had been watching the disappearance of the trawlerman as it had vanished gradually into the white and gray bank that lay astern of them.

"Aye, it had crossed my