“COME IN, come in, Captain!” said Mr Jeremie. “Pray be seated.
Allow me to offer you a glass of Madeira?” Delancey took a chair and accepted some wine, thanking his host for the kindly thought.
“A pleasure, Captain, and far below the consideration you merit. Last year’s campaign was a great success and we are confident that the year 1796 will bring as great a measure of prosperity.”
“I am happy to think that the owners have a good return on their outlay—and that your own conservatory is the proof of it.”
“Well, we look forward to having our own vines. But I am told that you are yourself a landowner these days.”
“Hardly that, sir. I have bought an old ruin and the land which surrounds it.”
“Your success with the Nemesis should turn it into a fine property some day. Perhaps you will name the residence after your ship?”
“It has always been Anneville, sir, and I should not wish to change it.”
“Foolish of me—I had forgotten the family connection on your mother’s side. Well now, you have the land and want only the money to build your residence. I sent for you, Captain, to give you good news on that subject. I think that a fortune is yours for the taking.”
“Indeed, sir?”
“A fortune, I repeat, before the year ends. Drink up, Captain, and allow me to refill your glass.”
“Thank you, Mr Jeremie. You will find me attentive.”
Both glasses were refilled and Mr Jeremie looked about him to make sure that he was not overheard, looking into the entrance hall and closing the door again. Even after that precaution he lowered his voice: “What I tell you is in strictest confidence. I have had a letter from Mr Early.”
“Indeed?”
“He is part-owner, as you know, of the Nemesis, and while he lives in Dorset he is much in Portsmouth and London, moves in the best society and enjoys the confidence of men in high office. In those circles, he tells me, the talk is of war with Spain. . . . Not a word of this to anyone.”
“You can trust me, sir, to be discreet.”
“Of course, of course. . . . Until recently our allies, the Spanish are to make peace with France and will soon be the subservient allies of the French Directory. To privateer owners this trend of events is of the greatest importance, but not all owners will be equally well informed. We are fortunate in having Mr Early as our partner.”
“He is well-named, sir.”
“Well-named? . . . Ha, I take your meaning! We plan to be early in the field, heh? Very droll! I must remember that. . . . Listen, though: there is more to this news than may strike you at first. With Spain as our enemy there will be another thirty sail of the line against us. We shall be as hard put to it as during the last war, barely able to hold our own. We shall win through, sir, no doubt of that. But the war may go against us for a year or two. And that will be the privateers’ opportunity.”
“What—when we are in danger of defeat?”
“Beyond question! When our fleets fall back on the Channel to save us from invasion, when our frigates are all needed to protect our trade, when the enemy’s fleet is at sea and undefeated and when his cruisers are on our very coast—that is the time when his merchantmen venture forth without convoy, richly laden, fearing nothing! That is when we prosper here in Guernsey. And that will be the situation, mark my words, before this year is ended.”
“So that victory, sir, is the last thing you want?”
“We want to win the war, naturally; and so we shall. But that comes later, and by that time the French privateers will be out—it will be their turn—and ours might as well be laid up or refitted for some other trade.”
“You mean, sir, that privateers do best on the losing side?”
“Just so; and that is the prospect we have to face. If the Spanish fleet sails for Toulon we are outnumbered in the Mediterranean and must withdraw from there. If the Spanish fleet sails for Brest the threat is to Ireland and we must go to meet it. The king’s ships will have all they can do to save us from invasion, and the interception of French merchantmen will be left to us, to the few lovers of their country who go to war at their own expense.”
“I see that our patriotism does us the greatest credit.”
“Indeed it does. We put to sea when things are at their worst.”
“But the question is, sir—when will the Spaniards declare war?”
“Now that is what many folk would like to know. But Mr Early is a farsighted man—very farsighted indeed—and he suggests the Spaniards will not actually declare war until after their annual treasure fleet has reached Spain, probably towards the end of September. We shall be at war with Spain, he believes, on about October the first.”
“Is a privateer commander allowed to act in intelligent anticipation?”
“Ah—that’s the point I was coming to. A prize taken in time of peace will not be condemned, unless—mark me well—she reaches a British port after war has been declared. I have known an instance of a prize-master taking eight weeks to reach Plymouth from Ushant.”
“The result of adverse winds.”
“Undoubtedly. I have now to ask by what date the Nemesis will be ready for sea?”
“On about May 25th, sir.”
“As late as that? But I know that you sustained some damage in March—more even than you knew at the time. You can’t always avoid gunfire—we know that. But there is still talk along the waterfront about your capture of the Bonne Citoyenne. That affair remains a classic, as one might say, of privateering tactics. It certainly made your reputation in St Peter Port!”
“Beginner’s luck, sir! It brought me volunteers, though, and I was able to replace old Le Vallois and a few other useless men.”
“You certainly have a good crew now. Well, you know what the position is and can guess what the owners want. Be off the Spanish coast by the middle of August. In the meanwhile we suggest you cruise on the French coast between Rochefort and the Spanish border. Gain intelligence from every possible source, gain the earliest news of war with Spain and strike hard before the Spanish are ready.”
“You set me, sir, an exceptionally difficult task.”
“Mr Early admits that in his letter. It is a task, he says, for an exceptional commander.”
It was under these orders that Nemesis put to sea. Delancey’s was certainly a difficult mission, since early success would lessen her chances of survival. Each prize-crew detached would weaken the crew still on board; more so in officers than in seamen. Cruising in the Channel, Delancey had been able to return to base at intervals, recovering his prize crewmen or recruiting others, but men sent home from the Gulf of Gascony were lost for good. Given any ordinary measure of success the Nemesis would be desperately short-handed before the date when the war with Spain was expected. Delancey pointed this out before he left Guernsey, obtaining leave to enrol two more officers and ten more men. This he managed to do, strengthening his crew by one more midshipman, an ensign of marines, four more seamen and six more landsmen. With any more men aboard it would have been impossible to provision the ship for six months, as was obviously essential. His only remedy for the inevitable loss of men was to recruit from captured ships, thus diluting his crew with men he could not trust.
Mr Jeremie made his speech (the same one) to the ship’s company on May 28th and Delancey put to sea that evening. He was off La Rochelle by June 16th and took his first prize a few days later.
This first success involved a long chase and the Frenchman yielded only to gunfire. Even when the chase had hove to there was some resistance to the boarding party. After a few minutes of hand-to-hand fighting the French captain finally surrendered, giving up a ship of only very moderate value. Delancey sent her home with some misgivings, doubting whether she had been worth the trouble. Two more prizes struck to him in early July, one of them fairly valuable, and then he fell in with a brig called the Thomas Jefferson, flying the tricolour when first sighted but with American papers of registration which were produced with a flourish after Delancey had taken possession. What she was really doing remained obscure but her disreputable crew included several Englishmen and two men (the master and mate) who claimed to be, and possibly were, American. With some misgivings Delancey enlisted seven men altogether, three of them apparently English. Of his original crew of 62 he had already lost 21. He now detached six more after battening the brig’s crew below hatches. This left him with 35 men to which number he added this doubtful reinforcement. His only remaining officers were his first lieutenant and marine ensign. Shorthanded even to navigate the ship, he was still less able to fight an action. He could take another prize, however, provided she made no more than a token resistance.
It was off Bilbao in early August that Delancey fell in with the British sloop Scorpion (16), commanded by Captain Mannering, who promptly signalled for the captain of Nemesis to come on board. Delancey obeyed, though not in uniform, and found himself faced by a stern-looking young officer who thought poorly, it would seem, of privateers.
“What have you taken, sir?” was his first question after the routine queries had been answered. Delancey told him and went on: “As for this last prize, the Thomas Jefferson, I could form no opinion as to real purpose of her voyage.”
“What was her cargo?”
“Naval stores and provisions, sir; canvas, cordage, tallow and tar.”
“She would be bound, in that case, for Cadiz. There is a French squadron there, blockaded by our own ships. Your prize would represent an attempt to carry French stores there under the American flag. This has been done quite frequently.”
“Then the French and the Spanish are already in alliance, sir?”
“There is no treaty so far as I know but they are allies in practice.”
“Dare we attack Spanish shipping, then?”
“Certainly not, sir. No state of war exists.”
“But war might begin at any moment?”
“Undoubtedly, sir. Act over-hastily, however, and I may myself apprehend you for piracy. It is surprising to me that privateering is allowed. I shall certainly discountenance any attempt to disregard the law as it exists.”
“I quite understand, sir. May I ask whether you have yourself taken anything?”
“No, I have not. We recently went in chase of a lugger but she turned out to be British. She was undoubtedly smuggling but I let her go.”
“Was she the Dove by any chance?”
“Yes, that was her name. You know the craft?”
“Oh, yes, sir. Sam Carter’s lugger.”
“We saw and spoke with her off Bayonne. Smuggling, privateering, trading with the enemy! I despair sometimes of victory when I contemplate the number of my fellow-countrymen who take no part in the war.”
Back in the Nemesis, Delancey decided to work northwards again, disappointed as he was in having no news of war with Spain. Once war had begun, he realized, the pattern of future conflict would turn on the orders given to the Spanish admiral at Cadiz. Would he sail for Toulon or Brest? What would the British Admiralty give for intelligence on that subject? He realized that couriers must be passing between France and Spain and that the despatches they carried might well give the date on which war was to be declared; as also, perhaps, the plan for cooperation between the French and Spanish fleet. These couriers would have to pass along the coast road in approaching the Spanish frontier. Had he, not Mannering, been the captain of the Scorpion, he would have landed a party of men and intercepted the next courier to come along. If his crew had not been so weakened, he would have been tempted to do it himself. It would be worth a fortune to know in advance when the war with Spain was to begin! It would be worth another fortune to the admiral blockading Cadiz and would even give a momentary advantage to George III. That last thought he had to dismiss, remembering that his employers were little interested in the outcome of the war as such. For all he knew Mannering might have seen the same opportunity as he had perceived and was about to seize it. Mannering was not the man to discuss his plan first with any privateersman he might chance to meet. The fact remained that there was a chance for someone to show initiative and score a considerable success. There was no such opportunity, however, for the captain of the Nemesis.
It was on August 19th when Delancey was summoned urgently on deck by Tracey, his young first lieutenant. Without saying anything, Tracey pointed westwards and handed Delancey his telescope. There was a sail there and Delancey had no difficulty in recognizing its type. “A French corvette,” he said briefly, returning the telescope, and asked Tracey why he himself had not been called sooner.
“There was a squall, sir, and she was hidden until now.”
Delancey realized that this could be true. It was blowing fairly hard towards the land with low cloud and a rising sea. It was dirty weather for the time of year and the Nemesis was steering almost due north under reduced canvas. To leeward was the flat coastline with a hint of white where the waves were breaking. Delancey decided at once to hold his present course knowing that he would be trapped against the land if he went in the other direction. His best hope of escape lay in the coming of darkness but many hours would pass before sunset. If the weather cleared, moreover, there would be a moon that night. As against that there might be another rain cloud and with it the chance to manoeuvre unseen. Delancey wondered whether to clear for action and decided against it. There would be time for that later. For the moment his better plan would be to make more sail. With the topgallants set the Nemesis heeled further over and seemed at least to be holding her own. More than that was not to be expected because the French ship would be better manned. Soon afterwards she too made more sail and seemed now to be gaining.
Watching the corvette, Delancey saw her hit by another squall. His opponent was lost to view in the rainstorm and Delancey gave orders to wear ship. This was quickly done, putting the Nemesis on the opposite course, but the manoeuvre brought her nearer to the shore. It was something of a gamble, in any case, as there was no escape southwards, but it might throw off the pursuer and gain an hour for the pursued. As Delancey weighed the possibilities the squall came down on his ship with a shriek. She heeled over with her lee bulwarks almost under water and then slowly righted herself. Five minutes later the sky cleared to windward, revealing the corvette on the same course! Her captain had guessed correctly and the Nemesis was now in a worse position, having gained nothing. Delancey swore quietly and wondered what to do next.
The clouds had gone and the sky to westwards was bright and clear, giving every promise of a fine evening. Delancey still wanted to escape northwards but wearing again would bring him still closer to the shore. If he tacked, on the other hand, he would find himself even closer to the enemy. He was still trying to make this decision when disaster struck. Quite suddenly his mizen topmast broke just above the mizen crosstrees and collapsed in a tangle of rope and canvas. Delancey balanced the sail area by handing the fore-topsail and, given an hour or so, could have jury-rigged his mizen. But there was no time for that. Nemesis was crippled and her opponent was closing in for the kill.
Short-handed as he was, Delancey managed to cut away the wreck of his mizen topmast, putting the tangle over the side. Then he cleared for action, doing what he could to encourage his gun-crews. Young Tracey was doing his best and the marine officer, Brehaut, was resolute and active, but neither, as Delancey knew, had been in battle before. His crew were a very mixed collection of men, weakened by the better seamen being chosen to man the prizes. There was no question of fighting to the death, for the men would never do it. All that anyone could do in this situation was to damage his opponent and then haul down his flag. Having reached that conclusion, Delancey thought again. He would do better to wreck the Nemesis than allow her to fall into enemy hands. He gave the helmsman a new course which could only end with his ship wrecked in the shallows which fringed the low-lying coast. That done, he prepared to give battle with all the guns he could man. The French corvette came up with her prey, shortening sail when nearly on the beam. At musket shot range, she opened fire and Delancey replied with a broadside from his port battery and the firing then became more or less continuous. The privateer’s fire was not particularly accurate but it served to keep the corvette at a respectful distance. A proper plan for the Frenchman would have been to close the range and finish his opponent by boarding. No attempt of this sort was made and the action continued for half an hour. During that time the fire from the Nemesis was gradually slackening. Two guns had been dismounted, a number of men had been killed or wounded and there were finally only five guns still in action. At that point the action suddenly ended, the corvette backing her topsails. Both ships ceased fire and a few minutes later the Nemesis ran aground, her foremast and mainmast going over the side at the moment of impact. Delancey knew that he had finally lost his ship.
There was still a heavy sea and the privateer lifted two or three times, moving further on to the sand and coming down again with a sickening thud. The timbers gaped after this, admitting about five feet of water and beginning the process of disintegration. Waves broke heavily over the ship’s waist as she sank lower and it was obvious that her hull would fall apart in a matter of hours. The corvette had anchored a half mile to seaward and the activity aboard her suggested that the French were about to lower a boat. Seeing this, Delancey called his men together on the forecastle, now the driest place, and thanked them for putting up a good fight.
“Well done, men,” he said. “We have cheated the French of their prize. They will have nothing to take with them, no mast on which to hoist the tricolour over the British ensign. They will presently send a boat over and we shall mostly end as prisoners of war. There is a good chance of being exchanged within twelve months but this is very much a matter of luck. Our two larger boats are smashed, as you can see, but the gig will float—or at least I think she will. I propose to gain the shore, if I can, and attempt to reach Portugal overland. The chances are that this attempt will fail. I may not reach the shore and, even if I do, may be taken prisoner as soon as I land—or may be fired upon, indeed, before I have landed. In the gig I can take five other men, giving preference to those who speak French or Spanish. Any volunteers?”
There was some hurried discussion and then the volunteers came forward, seven of them. Delancey rejected two of these—one as too young and the other too stupid—and told the rest to fetch their best clothes and small arms. The gig was lowered and Delancey gave his final orders to his first lieutenant. “Try to hold the attention of the French boat’s crew—give them something else to look at so that the gig is unnoticed. We shall see to it that the Nemesis is between us and the corvette. Good luck!” There was no time to waste, for the French longboat was already in the water, and the volunteers tumbled into the gig as well as they might. Delancey came last and took the helm, pushing off and steering so as not to be seen from the corvette. Even without that complication it was difficult to keep the gig afloat for the waves ran high and the boat was leaking. Looking back, however, Delancey could see that Tracey and his men were trying to lower the longboat. This was quite futile, of course, for the boat had been holed, but it certainly complicated the problem for the corvette’s longboat. The longboat of the Nemesis hung askew and Tracey could be seen waving his arms with almost Gallic despair. The French officer was trying to bring his boat alongside but his gestures conveyed his exasperation. From each wave crest Delancey had a diminishing view of this scene. Then the boat was in the breakers and grounding on the sand, the efforts of all being just sufficient to drag the gig out of the water and up the beach. They were all very wet by this time and Delancey set them to gather firewood so that their clothes might be dried. In a last dash down to his cabin, flint and steel were among the things he had remembered. He now chose a sheltered hollow for a camp fire and looked about him for signs of life. Seawards he could see the wreck of the privateer with her mizen lower mast still standing and, beyond it, the sails of the French corvette. Landwards there was heath and undergrowth, stunted trees and, further inland, a small wood. Either way along the sea’s edge stretched the sand dunes without the least sign of habitation or human activity. Their landing had been seen by nobody and they had come to as remote a place as could be imagined. They were, he guessed, on the French side of the frontier at some point north of Bayonne. Somewhere inland of them would be the road from Bordeaux to Bayonne and so to San Sebastian, the road which provided the line of communication between the French government and their fleet at Cadiz. Whatever the other drawbacks about his present situation, Delancey could see that he was well placed to intercept the mail. How would it be if he could return to England via Portugal as the bearer of vital information?
As the others came back with their firewood and as clothes were being dried before the fire, Delancey was considering the small group of survivors from the wreck of the Nemesis. Who were they and why did they volunteer? It was some minutes before the truth dawned on him: they were the men who had some special reason to avoid capture and exchange. The best seaman, a quartermaster indeed, was Pierre Rigault, recruited in Guernsey He was almost certainly a deserter from the navy, a man of some education and able to speak French with a good accent. Then there was André Bisson, a Jerseyman, a fugitive from justice and accused (it was said) of forgery. Martin Ramos claimed to be Spanish and certainly spoke that language fluently, having also some words of French (but not of English). He and Tom Manning had both been in the Thomas Jefferson and Ramos could be assumed to be a criminal of sorts. Manning said that he was American and a groom (of all things) by trade but Delancey put him down mentally as another deserter, probably from the British army. Frederick Hodder, enlisted at St Peter Port, spoke with a cockney accent and described himself as a locksmith. He was presumably a burglar and ripe for the gallows if caught. None of these men wanted to be listed as a prisoner of war, each of them had some good reason for avoiding public notice in any form. They could muster between them some useful talents but it was doubtful how far they could be trusted. Several, it might be supposed, would like to earn a royal pardon but Delancey was in no position to promise them that or any other reward. He had by any standards a difficult team to handle.
“Listen, men,” said Delancey. “We have won the first round, being safe ashore and little the worse for a ducking. We are in France but close to the Spanish frontier. War with Spain is expected but we must be treated there, in the meanwhile, as citizens of a country with which the king of Spain is at peace. Should war have begun, however, we can try to reach Portugal, knowing that the Portuguese are still our allies. If we reach Portugal we shall owe our success to keeping the strictest discipline, and my first order to you is to accept Mr Rigault as acting boatswain. You will obey him when I am not present and your survival may well depend upon it. My plan is to move across the frontier with Spain and so towards Portugal. While in France we shall march only at night, resting in concealment by day. There will be difficulties, no doubt, over food but the distance to the frontier is not more than forty miles, as I should guess, and may be nearer 35. If we gain any useful intelligence and convey it back to England we may gain a reward and perhaps induce the king to forget about any past incidents which are better forgotten. Remember this, above all, we are not defeated yet!”
Delancey’s little speech was well received but he had no illusions about the quality of his men. He knew, incidentally, that he had no recognized authority over them. His powers as a privateer commander were little more than those of any ship’s master and they ended with the shipwreck. All he had to enforce his orders was a vaguely naval uniform, a bag of coin and a pair of loaded pistols. The habit of command was enough for the time being but what would happen later on? Rigault was a useful man and so, he thought, was Manning. But what about Bisson or Hodder? For the moment he needed, first of all, to give them confidence. For this purpose he issued them with some biscuit and a tot of rum apiece. He then told them to rest, reminding them that they would have a long way to go after sunset. The shore was no place to linger and their first object must be to cross the frontier. Each time they slept they would have to post one man as sentry. He would himself take the first watch, Rigault the second, Bisson the third, Manning and Ramos next and Hodder last of all. Before they slept all weapons must be dried, reloaded and oiled.
It was a fine warm night, the wind having died away since the time of the action. The moon rose early and Delancey roused his men and told them that they must march. Before quitting the point at which they landed he made them haul the boat further inland and hide it in the wood. That done, they moved eastward with more caution than speed. The coast on which they had landed was a barren country, practically uninhabited, but a mile or two inland were areas of cultivation with farms and villages. They gained the main road on their first night’s march and were then compelled to make a wide circuit round the town of Bayonne. By the morning after the second night they were back on the main road and in a position to intercept the next courier bound from Paris to Cadiz. Ramos was sent that day to visit a wayside tavern and came back with the news that couriers passed on every other day. They travelled thus far by coach but would continue on horseback in Spain, where the roads were so rough. They were escorted by a couple of troopers as far as the frontier but were there met, it was said, by a troop of Spanish militia. There were brigands, Ramos was told, especially in Spain—yes, and smugglers as well—so that an officer could hardly be expected to travel alone. Having this much information, Delancey decided that their present progress was too slow. To reach Portugal before the outbreak of war with Spain it would be the better plan to intercept a courier and take his place, thus continuing with the speed of horses. There was good reason to make this interception on the French side of the frontier, partly because any subsequent hunt for bandits would be in France—the country they would be leaving—and partly because the capture of some travel documents would simplify the actual crossing of the frontier. It was, of course, a southbound courier they must intercept, one whose coming would be expected, not one whose carriage had been recently seen going in the opposite direction. Once in Spain, Delancey’s party had a good chance of being accepted as French. They could make only a brief attempt at being taken for Spaniards in France. The best place for the interception, Delancey concluded, would be near a place called Bidart.
The location finally chosen for the ambush was one where the road crossed a dry watercourse with plenty of undergrowth on either bank. There were few country folk around, and little traffic on the road. If the usual routine was followed the courier might be expected some time that same afternoon, perhaps between one and two, his aim being to dine at St Jean-de-Luz and possibly reach San Sebastian by nightfall.
There was much to do in the meanwhile and the preparation included the moving of two fallen trees to points on the roadside where they could be propped up and so fall, when pushed, across the carriage way. This could not be done without attracting some attention but Ramos was briefed with a story about a trap to be laid for bandits. He told it to several rustics, one of them frankly incredulous, but none was in a position to stop the work or report his suspicions to a magistrate or other public official. Work was also interrupted by the passing of an occasional farm-cart and once by a drove of cattle, but it was nevertheless completed in time. Soon after midday Pierre Rigault walked up the road towards Bayonne and sat down to wait for the expected coach and escort.
At a quarter past two the post-chaise appeared and Rigault, standing in the road, made the driver pull up. Going to the window of the coach, he warned the courier, in fluent French, that there were bandits in the vicinity and that a coach had been robbed only yesterday. The commandant at St Jean-de-Luz was sending a cavalry escort as far as a certain crossroads and had sent Rigault to warn the courier and guide him to the rendezvous. The courier, Captain Laffray, was an elderly, red-faced and fattish officer who rather made light of the danger. He gave it as his opinion that the bandits would prefer easier prey. The sergeant who was with him in the coach looked more alarmed and began to check the priming of his pistols. After a little further discussion the captain reluctantly admitted Rigault to the coach and thanked him for the warning which the sergeant passed on to the two troopers who were following as escort some fifty yards behind. The whip cracked and the vehicle rolled on.
Ten minutes later a tree crashed across the road, frightening the four horses to a plunging halt. The coachman was too occupied with the reins to draw his pistol but the second driver, sitting beside him, had his pistol ready. Several shots were fired and Rigault whipped out his pistols just ahead of the courier and the sergeant, shooting them both. Twenty yards behind the coach another tree fell across the road, bringing the two dragoons to a momentary halt. Then they charged, both being shot at close range, one of them mortally. There was a second shot, killing the wounded trooper, and then two more shots fired inside the coach. The firing died away, the smoke disappeared and the little skirmish was over.
“Dammit,” said Delancey, “I meant to take them prisoners. Why to God—?”
“How could we?” said Manning, “What could we have done with them?”
“This was the only way,” said Hodder.
In this fashion Delancey discovered the limits of his authority. His orders had been disobeyed, almost certainly by previous agreement, and he knew that the others had been right. Hating the cold-blooded killing, he could say no more on the subject.
“Strip their uniforms off,” he said, “and dig a grave over there.” He pointed to a clump of trees some two hundred yards away. “There’s a spade on the coach,” he added and Ramos unclipped it from its place. Delancey then took the courier’s leather bag and told Hodder to pick the lock.
“Won’t he have the key, sir?” asked that expert, only to be told to get on with it. As Delancey knew, the key would never have been entrusted to the courier but only to the officers at either end of the route. A grisly half hour followed, for the uniforms were bloodstained, but the work was finally done. It could not be finished, however, until a bucket of water and a scrubbing brush had been borrowed from a cottage and even then the stains were visible on the ill-fitting uniforms. At last the moment came when the party could assemble, ready to proceed. Tom Manning was the coachman, with Martin Ramos as his assistant. Bisson and Hodder were dragoons, sitting their horses in some discomfort. Delancey himself was the courier and Pierre Rigault was the sergeant. From the direction of the burial place came the howling of a dog. “Shall I . . . ?” asked Rigault, but Delancey replied, “We have spilt blood enough. Let’s go!” He was still feeling rather sick as the carriage rolled on.
The contents of the courier’s bag proved disappointing. There were no orders from Paris for the French Admiral at Cadiz. There were letters enough but they were all dealing with routine matters. The sentence of a court martial was confirmed, the report rendered by a court of inquiry was formally acknowledged, a successor was named to the purser of the Barras (who had died) and the appointment was notified of a new surgeon for the Duquesne. There was correspondence about new canvas to be supplied to the Censeur, as also about the cost of repairing the Friponne’s rudder. There were private letters in addition, some even from officials in the Ministry of Marine, but none shed light on the intended movements of Admiral Richery—still less on the plans of the Spanish Commander-in-Chief, Don Juan de Langara. Reading through all these trivialities as the coach travelled southwards, Delancey had a sense of failure. Had those six men been killed for nothing? No, that was not true. The result of the skirmish had been to provide Delancey with carriage and horses, with a useful sum in French currency, with papers of identification and means of disguise. His party would have no difficulty in passing the sentries at St Jean-de-Luz. The frontier lay beyond and San Sebastian perhaps seven miles further on. They would arrive late but the failing light would be an advantage. . . . It was late afternoon by now, buildings and passers-by had become more frequent and there was more traffic on the road. It was obvious that the coach was in the outskirts of St Jean-de-Luz.
It was at this point that Delancey became aware of a coming problem. He foresaw no difficulty with the sentries or guard commander but he realized that there would have to be a change of horses. The proper coachman would have driven straight to the coaching inn but Tom Manning would not know where it was nor was there anyone in the party who could tell him. Rigault could inquire but that would seem ridiculous. Perhaps the horses would know their way to their stable? Worrying over this, Delancey told himself that the problem might not exist. There might be only the one main street and the principal inn might be obvious from the other coaches there. While he was still pondering this problem the coach drew up and a soldier appeared at the window, saluting when he saw Delancey’s uniform. The sentry merely glanced at the documents which Delancey waved, stepping back again and telling the coachman to drive on. The coach now advanced more slowly because of the traffic and Delancey hoped that the horses would prove better-informed than the driver. They were not and the coach presently came to a standstill. Stepping down from the coach door, Delancey saw that the street forked and that Manning was at a loss. Going forward and speaking quietly, Delancey said, “To the right,” and so returned to his seat in the coach, hoping devoutly that his guess would prove correct. Looking out he presently saw that his choice, made at random, was almost certainly wrong. The street they were in led to the quayside and away from the centre of the town. There were ship’s chandlers and sailors’ taverns and more than a touch of squalor. Young women and errand boys were staring at the coach in wonder and perhaps with a hint of derision. Manning drew up and Delancey again went forward to speak with him, meaning to tell him to go back to the point where they had evidently gone wrong. Before he could do so, however, a seafaring man stepped up to him and said quietly (in English):
“Captain Delancey, I think? Perhaps you have lost your way?”