THE ENTRANCE of the Rev. Francis Le Couteur had all the impact of an exploding bomb. At one moment Captain Campbell was about to make a speech. An instant later he was fighting for his life. The rector of St Martin’s was not a big man but he seemed at that moment to fill the room, everyone else being pushed against the walls by the mere force of his personality. “What is this?” he shouted as he stormed in. “Do I hear aright—that you have surrendered? That you have laid down your arms without firing a shot?” Reeling under this frontal attack, Campbell said that he had the lieutenant-governor’s order to cease fire.
“Major Corbet’s order? But he is no longer governor! He is no longer anything! He is on his knees to the French now and will be on his knees before a court martial afterwards. Mr Corbet is finished for ever. Let’s hear no more rubbish about orders from him!”
“But I have his orders in writing, sir—orders from my superior officer.”
“Let me see them!”
“Very well, sir. Read them for yourself.”
The clergyman looked them over and returned to the charge. “He signed that meaningless nonsense with a French sword at his throat. And the other sheet he hasn’t signed at all.”
“I have my orders, sir.”
“Fiddlesticks! You wear a sword, don’t you? Then use it, man! Drive this pack of rascals out of the island!”
“My force is too weak for that.”
“It’s you who are too weak! You’ll leave all the fighting to the 95th, will you?”
“But they have the same orders!”
“And do you think Major Peirson is the man to obey them? You have met him, surely? You have spoken with him, haven’t you? Can you see him agreeing to surrender?”
“But the governor—”
“Stop bleating about the governor. We have none. All we have is a pack of cowardly French waiting for you to destroy them.”
“But—but—”
“But nothing. March on St Helier! Don’t waste another instant. Every moment is precious! Into battle, man, or you’ll go down in history as a coward.”
That Campbell should have resisted this onslaught is incredible but he did so, shaking his head and seeking refuge in his bedroom. The rector turned at once to Mr Robertson.
“Now’s your opportunity! Take command and march into St Helier. You have the chance to be famous!”
“I have the chance to be cashiered, sir. I micht no’ heed the governor’s order but I canna supersede the captain. That would finish me in the regiment.”
“Look, Mr Robertson. I’m a man of some property. If you lose your commission, I’ll make it up to you.”
“It’s mair than that, sir. Na, I canna do as you ask. I’m under orders, ye see.”
“But I am not!” said Richard, speaking for the first time since entering the room.
“You are junior to me, Mr Delancey.”
“I am not, sir.”
“You’ll do as you’re told!”
“I’ll do as I please. Reverend sir, I’m with you. Shall we go?”
They left together and the clergyman looked at him in wonder: “What about your career?”
“I have been a midshipman, sir, but I have no ship at present and am merely a private individual with some knowledge of cannon. I suggest we take your guns into battle.”
“And so we shall! We’ll reach St Helier in an hour.”
“No, sir. By your leave, I can offer you a better target close at hand. The vessels off La Rocque Point in which the French came! Leave St Helier to the 95th and cut off the French retreat.”
“You’re a man after my own heart. Let’s have those guns on their way!”
Ten minutes later the small column started off, headed by the rector. His parishioners present numbered 22, enough to keep the guns moving and drive the cart which carried the ammunition. But Richard was concerned to find that they were all unarmed. He also realised that the men were far from their own parish and unfamiliar, therefore, with the ground. He was relieved, therefore, when he saw three militiamen coming towards him, muskets in hand.
“Where are you going?” he asked in French.
They explained that they were going to Grouville to join up with their company of the East Regiment.
“Have you seen the French?” asked the rector.
“Yes, sir—with guns and all, with boats and ships.”
“Then lead us towards them.”
“But, sir—our company—”
“Your company will be coming this way—so you can save yourself the walk.”
With some difficulty the militiamen were persuaded to march towards the enemy. After an hour’s march Richard stopped the column, explaining to his clergyman friend that the time had come to do some scouting.
“We must find the right position from which to open fire.”
“But if we stop here, we shall be wasting time.”
“No, sir. We’ll waste more time if we take the wrong path. And we’ll ruin all if the French see us coming.”
There was no time to explain at length but the Rev. M. Le Couteur luckily took his word for it and his men were more than glad of the rest.
“Come with me,” said Richard to the militiamen.
As they marched on, Richard tried to explain what he wanted; a position from which two guns could be brought into action. It had to be approached unseen, with a hollow behind it for the ammunition cart. It had to offer a clear field of fire and a good view of the target. He doubted at the end whether they had the least idea of what he was talking about. They muttered among themselves, however, and one of them presently offered to act as guide. Following a path to the left under his guidance and passing through a gap in the wall on their right, they presently came out in a field near a farmhouse. Below them and less than a mile distant was the Plat Rocque Battery, in enemy hands. To the left and further away was the flotilla, at anchor, from which the French had landed. The exposed position where he was would not serve, although admittedly within range, but there was another and slightly higher hillock further forward and on his right, surmounted by a wall made of loose granite. After a few minutes of hurried inspection he decided that this was the place. He marked the gun positions, on flat ground, twenty yards apart and left a militiaman at each with orders to make a gap in the wall about four feet wide. With the third militiaman (the guide) he hurried back to the point where the Rev. M. Le Couteur was waiting impatiently. The order was given to advance and another half-hour saw the cannon manhandled into position behind the wall, each with its own embrasure.
The panting rustics sat down to recover their breath. The bellicose gentleman produced a spyglass from his pocket and glared through it at the captured battery position. The French had shifted the guns so as to fire inland and were at work on a breastwork to flank them.
“There are not more than a hundred of them!” he exclaimed. “Let’s open fire at once!”
Richard asked to borrow the spyglass and kept it to his eye for several minutes, much to his fuming companion’s annoyance.
“That I should have lived to see the French ashore in St Clement’s parish, walking back and forth as if the island belonged to them!”
Richard handed back the spyglass and began to scratch on some bare earth with a twig.
“There are 24 vessels at anchor and eleven boats drawn up on the beach. Some other boats were evidently wrecked in landing, probably with some loss of life. All the craft in sight are quite small, of a hundred tons or less. Allowing for ammunition and supplies, they will each have carried forty men in addition to the crew. That comes to nine hundred and sixty but we’ll call it a thousand. Less a hundred here, that gives us nine hundred Frenchmen in St Helier. I suspect, however, that they lost a hundred, say, in landing, which puts their army at eight hundred. That is the approximate size of the force we have to destroy.”
“Then let’s about it!” cried the rector, fairly dancing with impatience.
“Yes, sir. But will you be so good as to go back to Captain Campbell and tell him what the position is? There are only eight hundred of the enemy in St Helier and a hundred here. I submit that he destroy these first and then march to town.”
“Do you mean to propose, sir, that I absent myself from the action—I whose cannon you have just trained on the enemy? I, but for whom you would have no guns at all? Is that, sir, your serious proposition?”
“No, sir. We shan’t fire until you return.”
“What—losing another hour?”
“You have to realise, sir, that I have to teach your men how to fire cannon. If they are taught nothing they will blow themselves up. I need half an hour with them before we fire a shot.”
“Very well, young man. But don’t dare to begin without me! On second thoughts, you will lack the means. I have the flint and steel in my pocket”
“Very well, sir. Take this militiaman with you as orderly. And bring back any others you may happen to meet. With only two, I think myself short of infantry!”
Richard plunged into gunnery instruction as the rector strode off. To train a real gun-crew took months of work, as he knew, but that meant rapidity of fire. It would be enough for his present purpose if he could teach them to fire without hurting themselves. Looking at them critically, he realised for the first time that they were all either old or young. Those of military age would all be in the militia. As against that, the old men must all have been in the militia. “Which of you has fired a cannon before?” he asked, and, to his relief, three of the men stepped forward. One had been in the militia artillery and the other two had been at sea. He formed two gun-crews, each with a captain, numbered them off and told them the sequence.
“First the cartridge—ram it right home seam-downwards—then the wad—then the shot, rammed well in—now the other wad—the ramrod again. Now we have the gun loaded. The gun-captain pricks the cartridge—like this—through the touch-hole. Then he fills the touch-hole with priming powder, so. The gun is now primed and ready to fire. But we’ve forgotten something. What is it, somebody?”
“You haven’t lit the slow match, sir,” said the ex-militia artilleryman.
“Nor I have; and I won’t for the present. What else?”
“We need water, sir.”
“Right! You two young men—double off to the farm down there and come back with two buckets of water. Quick! Off with you!” The two boys scampered off and Richard went on with the lesson.
“The gun-captain applies the linstock—like this, but with the match lit. When he does this you all step back out of the way and so does he. The gun fires! Now we push the worm—this thing—down the barrel, to clean it. Then the sponge, for which we need the water. After that we can reload, starting all over again.” He paused and asked, “Is that clear?” The men nodded and muttered “Yes” or “Clear enough,” so he went on: “Very well then, we know what to do. We have now to know which task will be for whom.” He numbered them off, allocated the duties and began the first exercise. By the fourth repetition it was correctly, if slowly, performed. After the sixth, the two boys returned with buckets of water and were then given the task of fetching the ammunition from the cart, thirty yards in rear.
“Can’t we have the cart nearer, sir?” asked one of them. “We shouldn’t have so far to go.”
“No you wouldn’t,” said Richard. “But if the enemy fire back and hit that cart, I don’t want to be sitting on it—do you?” There was a laugh at this and Richard decided to give his men a rest. They were still resting when the Rev. M. Le Couteur reappeared. With him came Lieutenant Helier Godfray and seven of his men from the East Regiment. With him also came the best of news:
“Mr Robertson is on his way to join us with half of the 83rd!”
“What—did you persuade Captain Campbell?”
“No, sir, I did not. But I said this to him: ‘If Mr Robertson marched off without orders from you, would you look the other way, knowing nothing about it?’ He agreed to that and the troops are ten minutes or so behind us. Now for my cannon!”
For the rector of St Martin’s the great moment of the day had come. He personally lit the slow match and then looked over the wall, peering through his spyglass to see what progress the French had made with their breastwork. There was little more accomplished, as he pointed out.
“You see, sir,” said Richard, “that battery was made to face the other way. To turn it round is no easy task.”
“And they have no more time in which to do it.”
“Will you watch, sir, and tell us where the shot falls?”
To this plan the rector readily agreed and Richard, after finally checking the aim, called out the order: “Number One Gun—Fire!”
There was a loud bang and the rector, watching, shouted back the result:
“Too far! It fell in the sea and somewhat to the left.”
“Number Two Gun—Fire!”
The bang was quickly followed by another correction.
“Too far! In the sea and still further to the left.”
It was to be expected that the French, with four cannon, would reply. They had men enough round the guns but they seemed to achieve nothing. Not being themselves under fire, Richard’s gun-crews went on stolidly, altering elevation and bearing until Number One Gun’s fourth round destroyed one of the French boats. Number Two Gun then hit another, Number One Gun a third. The boats drawn up on the beach were slowly being reduced to matchwood but not a Frenchman had been hit.
“What’s this?” shouted the clergyman with the spyglass. “Why don’t you destroy the enemy?”
“It’s better, sir,” said Richard, “to deprive them of their means of escape.”
After hearing some more ecclesiastical grumbling, Richard resumed his methodical bombardment. Then he yelled, “Cease fire!” and told the gun-captain of Number Two Gun that his ramrod had not gone home. “For God’s sake don’t fire with the ball half-way up the barrel. You’ll burst the gun and kill yourselves. Do it slowly and do it right!” Then he saw that Number One Gun had several cartridges lined up and ready to use. He had them taken back to the cart. “Don’t have more than one cartridge at a time.” The fire was slow and inaccurate, Richard being chiefly intent on the safety precautions. Apart from that, his own knowledge was minimal—as he knew—and he had never commanded a battery before. In one respect, however, he was achieving results. Several of the vessels previously at anchor were making sail, evidently to withdraw out of range. The escape of the French troops ashore was gradually becoming impossible and their reinforcement highly unlikely. The Frenchmen round La Rocque Point were in a trap. It remained for the 83rd to go in with the bayonet.
As Richard joined the rector for a moment, borrowing his spyglass, he suddenly found Lieutenant Robertson beside him.
“Weel done, Reverend, sir!” said the Scotsman, snatching the spyglass. “We’ve just heard that Peirson of the 95th is marching on St Helier! The captain is on my heels with the ither half of the 83rd, having taken time to send Peirson news of what he means to do. I’ll go to the right and take them in flank.”
Up came Lieutenant Godfray who asked, “May we come with you?”
This offer was accepted at once and Robertson went back to meet his men, with ten militiamen to add to his detachment. Richard now shifted his aim, firing directly on the French position and on the flank which Robertson meant to turn. The aim was as poor as ever but the French began to sustain casualties, much to the rector’s satisfaction.
“Well aimed, Mr Delancey! We’ll teach these fellows a lesson!”
“Yes, sir. Here beginneth the Second Lesson!”
“Shame on you, sir. Don’t mock the Book of Common Prayer.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, sir. Number One Gun—Fire!”
“Short and to the right,” said the rector. “Whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth …”
Over to the right Richard could now see Robertson’s column advancing to the attack. He had formed his men into two platoons and was leading the first himself, sword in hand. Richard ceased fire as the infantry went in, then opened a long-range and ineffective bombardment of the flotilla. Watching from the wall, he and the rector saw Robertson’s column halt, fire a volley and then assault with the bayonet. As he did so Captain Campbell arrived with his column, passed just to the left of Richard’s position, and made a frontal attack on the French breastwork. He came too late, however. Robertson had routed the French before Campbell’s attack could develop; not without casualties, though, on his side, Lieutenant Godfray being among the wounded. After a half-hearted attempt to re-embark, the enemy mostly surrendered. Under a distant fire from Richard’s cannon what remained of the French flotilla hoisted sail and made off eastwards, leaving the Baron de Rullecour to his fate.
“Half-past twelve,” said the rector. “The battle is over. And that has been the finest sight I shall ever see. I think, sometimes, that I chose the wrong vocation.”
Congratulating the clergyman and thanking his parishioners, Richard suggested to them that they should march for home. This they did, after giving three cheers, and Richard went forward to view the battlefield. There he found Campbell very much in command and not on the best of terms with Robertson. And now, to crown all, he had received a letter from Major Peirson, ordering him to bring the 83rd to Gallows Hill on the far side of St Helier.
“It’s impossible,” Campbell said. “My men are exhausted and I have seventy prisoners to guard.” Seeing that the French had provided themselves with horses, now going spare, Richard offered to ride with any message that the captain wished to send. Campbell accepted the offer with gratitude. “I’d have sent Robertson but you can see that he is shifting the guns back into position. I suppose that he’s right but I wish he’d wait for orders. Anyway, my compliments to Major Peirson. I have received his orders and will obey them as soon as possible. You can tell him yourself what the position is and that we have fifteen men killed or wounded.”
Richard was an indifferent horseman at best. Choosing what he hoped was the quietest animal and arming himself with a cutlass taken from one of the enemy dead, he set off at a trot and reached the St Clement’s Road via the Rue de Chausey. He was about three miles, he learnt, from St Helier but that was not his destination. To reach Gallows Hill, with St Helier in enemy hands, he would have to circle the town to the northwards. He had no idea how to do that but neither was he very confident about his errand. Peirson must have sent that message hours ago and the situation would have changed since then. The chances were that the 95th would be somewhere else by now. His doom was seemingly to go on one fool’s errand after another and this one was the more foolish in that Campbell had not the slightest intention of obeying the order, being careful to avoid a written reply, probably with the intention of denying afterwards that he had received the order in the first place. Or was that unfair? He would clearly not march in the immediate future—”as soon as possible” was the phrase he had used, reassuring but vague. There was a sense, indeed, in which Campbell was right. At La Rocque Point he was well placed to cut off the French retreat—supposing that their flotilla were to return—while it would take him hours to reach Gallows Hill, supposing that he could get there at all.
As Richard approached St Helier he was made uneasy by the prevailing silence. The inhabitants were in their cellars or had fled. There was no sound of firing, no sound at all save for the echo of his horse’s hooves from the cottage walls. He turned off to the right, thinking that he would have to circle the town that way but half expecting to come across a French barricade. There was no sign of the French, however, and he turned left again into what he found afterwards was the Colomberie. There he dismounted, moving forwards cautiously as a church clock struck one. Then, quite suddenly, a group of British infantry crossed the road at the double from right to left. These were followed by another group marching rapidly and led by an officer on foot. From somewhere ahead in the town came the sudden boom of a cannon, the noise of which proved too much for Richard’s mount. The reins were jerked from Richard’s hands as the horse plunged and reared. A moment later it had gone with a clatter, heading back the way it had come and probably towards its stable. Richard walked on and came to the point at which the redcoats had crossed the Colomberie. Just round the corner on his right he came across a young ensign waiting impatiently for his men to catch up with him. Richard introduced himself as a messenger from the 83rd and asked where Major Peirson was to be found.
“The French are round the Royal Court and Major Peirson is going to attack them from the other side—from Gallows Hill and past the hospital. He has sent us, the light company of the 78th, to occupy the Mont de la Ville and cut off the enemy’s retreat. The light company of the 95th is behind us and some militia as well. Hurry up, there! Sergeant, tell those men to keep on the move!”
Richard concluded that the delivery of his message would be a waste of time. The French were surrounded already and the presence or absence of the 83rd would make no difference at all. Nor would Peirson be gratified at this moment for information about the skirmish at La Rocque Point. He had his opponents in a trap and was closing in for the kill. There could be only eight hundred Frenchmen at the most and Peirson’s forces must outnumber them by at least two to one. The French raid had been lunacy from the start. The next hour would see the finish.
The Mont de la Ville was on the left of the Colomberie and two or three hundred yards distant. When the light company of the 95th passed by, going in that direction, Richard resolved to follow them. From the hill, which overlooked the town centre, he would at least be able to see what was happening. Ten minutes later he was on the hill, which the French had apparently made no attempt to occupy. Below him was the Royal Square, with the Town Church to the left and the Royal Court (seen from the back) very much in the centre. The square was held by the French who were formed up facing each entry. They had made little attempt to barricade these entries but they had several cannon in position and manned. The centre of the town was otherwise deserted, shuttered and silent. Below him and to the right some companies of militia had formed up in the Colomberie and La Motte Street, preventing the French escape in that direction. All was quiet for several minutes as the light company of the 95th was taking up position on the hill. They were, of course, far out of range, being posted there merely to complete the surrounding movement. They played no active part in the battle. Then silence was broken by a cannon firing, aimed apparently down Broad Street. All was quiet again until, far off, there came the sound of a drum. It came gradually nearer at a steady pace, inexorable and menacing. Then at last Richard glimpsed the advancing columns, one in Broad Street, the other in King Street. They looked magnificent in scarlet with white crossbelts, with bayonets glittering and swords drawn. The French fired a volley on the word of command and gaps appeared in the marching ranks, only to be filled at once by men from the rear. At last the drum stopped beating and the column in King Street halted, firing a first volley and then resuming their advance. The French replied with a volley and this, at the shorter range, was evidently more destructive than their first. The redcoated column wavered for the first time and it looked as if the officer on the right flank had fallen. The troops actually fell back a few paces, firing independently, but the setback was only momentary. The ranks re-formed under command, the advance was resumed and then halted again. Came the crash of another volley and then the sound of cheering as the 95th went in with the bayonet. The French lines broke there and in Broad Street and the enemy fell back, still fighting, into the square. There was a scene of noise and confusion but Richard could see that groups of Frenchmen were throwing down their arms. The firing gradually died away and more redcoats closed in on every side. It was obvious that the battle was over.
The troops on the Mont de la Ville were now given the order to advance and went into the town. Richard followed them and presently found himself in the square where the battle had taken place. The ground was still littered with bodies in the uniform of either side, the wounded were being carried into adjacent houses and the prisoners taken under escort to the Town Church. Richard asked a soldier of the 95th where Major Peirson could be found.
“The Major, sir? He was killed in King Street, sad to tell. He was a brave young officer, none better.”
“And Major Corbet?”
“He’s over there by the Court House, where the French general fell—the useless, cowardly, rotten fool!” There, sure enough, was a tall and impressive officer, showing his hat to a militia colonel—there had evidently been a bullet through it. This might look well enough, Richard thought, but he would not have been in Corbet’s shoes for all that. The man’s reputation was beyond repair.
The French weapons were being collected in a heap and Richard added his cutlass to the pile. Having nothing more to do, he walked down to the harbour to ask when the packet for Guernsey would leave. She should have sailed that morning, he was told, but would probably now sail within the hour. He went aboard and paid for his passage, being joined presently by a young ensign from the 78th. His name was Woodcock and he was taking the news to Guernsey of the French defeat.
“By whose orders are you sent?” asked Richard.
“Major Corbet’s,” said Mr Woodcock. “But, between ourselves, I don’t suppose he’ll be in command for long. He’ll be facing a court martial, I fancy. All the credit will go to Major Peirson, and Corbet is finished. Some of our men fired at him but missed, more’s the pity. They hit the French general, though.”
“Did they kill him?”
“Not instantly, but he’s not expected to live.”
“What was the strength of his force?”
“Something over five hundred in St Helier, I’m told. Not all his men landed, it seems, and of those that landed quite a few were drowned.”
“With a hundred or so at La Rocque Point, that gives him a total strength of something under a thousand. To attack Jersey with that force seems madness!”
“It was a hazardous enterprise, to be sure. What seems astonishing is that he should so nearly have succeeded.”
“He was fortunate to lose so few men as he did in landing. That coast around La Rocque Point is all but impassable; a tangle of rocks, and he attempted it in the dark!”
“He must have had local help—a pilot to lead him in. And someone must have told him that La Rocque Point was unguarded. There was treachery, that’s certain.”
“There would seem to be no doubt about it.”
Richard was glad to have a meal on board the packet after she had sailed. The talk at table was all about the attack on Jersey, several men having their own stories to tell. One had actually seen the Baron de Rullecourt during his brief governorship of the island. Another had known Peter Arrive, a civilian who had been murdered by the French. All agreed that the French had been lucky to succeed as well as they did. Richard agreed silently, thinking to himself that their luck had begun before they landed, for the Ariel had missed them by no more than an hour or two.
“Did you hear,” one passenger was saying, “of the part played in this affair by a clergyman? He was from St Martin’s, I’m told, and he actually brought two guns into action against the French.”
“That would be the Rev. M. Le Couteur,” said an older man, “I can picture him doing that.”
“Yes, that’s right. Le Couteur is the name. He comes out of the affair with more credit than most of the soldiers. What went wrong, sir, would you say?”
The question was addressed to Ensign Woodcock, who replied: “Well, to begin with, sir, there was no senior officer on the island.”
There was some further discussion about the garrison’s lack of vigilance and then the man who had first mentioned Mr Le Couteur came back to that topic.
“A fine man he is, the rector of St Martin’s, and my hope is that his part in this affair will always be remembered.”
“A fine man he must be,” said the ensign. “From what you tell me I would conclude that he should be a bishop.”
More to himself than to the others Richard added absently: “Or, anyway, a Canon.”