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  “Mind you,” Harris broke in on his thoughts. “I don’t deceive myself into thinking that an admiral has an easy life. They have more work to do than you or I, and Macbride, for one, must be working like a brewer’s dray-horse. By the time all his transports are collected and the troops embarked he’ll be ready to quit the service.”

  “I know about the transports,” said Delancey, “but where are the troops?”

  “In camp at Netley. There are several infantry regiments with more, I hear, on the way. Some cavalry marched in yesterday and some artillery the day before.”

  “And they are going overseas?”

  “The rumour is that they are destined for Flanders. God knows whether that is true but a big expedition is planned, you may depend on it. Look at the tonnage that Macbride has collected! They say that Lord Moira is to command but he seems to have gone; perhaps back to London. He was in Portsmouth last week, though—I saw him here with Macbride.”

  “I recently heard a story that the French are planning something too, with troops collected at St Malo.”

  “S’death—I never heard that. They’ll lose their enthusiasm when they put to sea and find Lord Howe waiting for them!”

  At this point Lieutenant Rymer interrupted the conversation, hurrying across to them from the stairs.

  “Mr Delancey, I have orders for you. Collect your gear from the Grafton and go on board the Cormorant sloop now at Spithead but due to sail by this evening’s tide. You will be a supernumerary, on passage merely to Guernsey, where you will report to Captain the Prince of Bouillon. Here are your orders to that effect with a covering letter to the Port Admiral. Here is a letter to the captain of the Grafton and another to the captain of Cormorant. They both need the Port Admiral’s signature. Ask at his office for Lieutenant Watkins and give him this note with my compliments. And here, last of all, is a letter to His Highness which you will deliver to him in person. Do you clearly understand what you have to do?”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  “Goodbye then—and good luck!” The flag lieutenant was gone again in a minute, leaving Harris to stare at Delancey with surprise and disbelief.

  “Wonders will never cease! So you are going to sea! But remember what I said. Look out for squalls! If there was any credit to be got out of your mission the job would have been given to someone else. Keep a sharp look-out! Be ready to cut and run!”

  Richard Delancey was on board the Cormorant before sunset, outwardly calm but secretly thrilled to be at sea again and on active service.

  The sloop was ship-rigged, of eighteen guns, a sister-ship to the Amazon. She was a smart ship with white decks, new paintwork and every rope in its place. There were all the signs that her captain was an artist in his way, even to paying for gold leaf on the scrollwork. The breeze sang in the rigging and the ship was alive under him, a racehorse impatient to start. This passage to Guernsey, to his birthplace, was nothing in itself but it could lead on to fortune. What Harris had said was merely envious. Damn the fellow! There might be something in his confounded suspicions but he put the thought aside. He was an officer chosen for a special mission and one from which he might return with his reputation made. This could be—no, it must be!—the big opportunity of his life, the turning point of his career. After seeing a hammock slung in his borrowed cabin he came on deck to report for duty. He moved over to the lee side of the quarterdeck as Captain Bastable appeared, uncertain what duty, if any, would be expected of him.

  “Good evening, Mr Delancey.”

  “Good evening, sir.”

  “Welcome aboard. Your orders, I gather, are to report to Philip D’Auvergne. You will find him ashore at St Peter Port. If this wind holds we should be there tomorrow before noon. I shan’t ask you to stand watch but you will probably want to see the ship sail.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  Delancey was secretly relieved. His fear had been that he would be told to take charge of the deck, out of practice as he was after nearly a year in harbour. But Bastable had his own reputation to think about and wanted no mishap at Spithead, not even in a failing light. He took the ship to sea himself.

  Delancey found that it all came back to him, the sequence of orders for weighing anchor and making sail.

  “All hands up anchor! Ready there forward? Heave away! Keep step—stamp and go!” Then came the sound of the fiddle and the groan of the capstan, the sound of footsteps together and then the cry, “Anchor’s a-peak, sir!”

  The next task was to make sail and Delancey could see that the topmen were ready along the topsail yards.

  “Let fall!” came the order and the great sails dropped and filled in an instant with the thunder of cannon and the sudden quiet as they took on their classic curve.

  “Sheet home! Hoist away! Brace up forward!”

  The anchor was now at the cathead and hooked and the captain gave the quartermaster his course, “South-west by west—Steady!” The voyage had fairly begun and the captain sent the port watch below, handing over the deck to Lieutenant Saunders. The ship leaned over to the breeze, the bow wave frothed back from the stem and the stars came out among the rigging. A sailor again, Delancey stayed to watch the moonrise, pacing the quarterdeck with Saunders.

  “Have you been in St Peter Port recently?” he asked.

  “Three weeks ago.”

  “Can you tell me then about the Prince of Bouillon? Is he a French émigré?”

  “No, Mr Delancey, he is not. He comes of a well-known family in Jersey He joined the Navy and was commissioned during the war with the American Colonies. When the Arethusa was wrecked near Ushant in 1778 D’Auvergne was taken prisoner and remained in France until exchanged.”

  “And came back a prince? “

  “The Dukes of Bouillon have D’Auvergne as their family name and the late Duke—who died two years ago—had no proper heir. He adopted this British officer as his son.”

  “Were they, in fact, related?”

  “Oh, yes, distantly So the experts say.”

  “And the Duchy of Bouillon is or was an independent principality?”

  “More or less. But the D’Auvergnes have, or rather had, an even bigger estate in France. It centres on the Castle of Navarre, near Evreux. Marshal Turenne was their great man, back in the reign of Louis XIV.”

  “I am fortunate to find you so well-informed.”

  “D’Auvergne has been the talk of Guernsey. All I have told you could be heard in the market-place.”

  “And what ship does D’Auvergne command?”

  “I can’t say. He has some small craft and gunboats, used for gaining intelligence and helping the French émigrés. D’Auvergne himself is to be found on shore.”

  “I am most grateful to you, sir. I think I had best turn in now and look forward to meeting the Prince tomorrow.”

  “Goodnight, Mr Delancey.”

  Next morning was sunny with a stiff breeze from the east. Alderney was sighted and the Cormorant entered the Russel under all canvas. From the quarterdeck Delancey watched as the Guernsey coast came in sight. First there was the flat land north of the bridge at St Sampsons, the separate island called the Vale. Vale Castle was seen next with the colour flying over its batteries, and finally the sloop came abreast of Castle Cornet and saluted the flag.

  As the gunfire re-echoed from the cliffs and aroused the screaming of the gulls, Delancey was looking afresh at the town in which he had been born. In the foreground were the breakwaters which enclosed the harbour, beyond these the red-roofed warehouses which lined the shore and beyond them again the roofs which surged up the hillside to Hauteville, the higher and newer part of the town. There was the tower of the town church and further along to the north he could identify the very garret window of the room he had shared with his two brothers, Mathew and Michael (Rachel’s room had been on the other side, facing the street). Yes, he was home again and felt the warmth of recognition and the return of boyhood memories. There was none left of his family in Guernsey
and hardly even their names would be recalled but this was all the home he had. Here were the same fishing boats in the harbour, the same sunlight on the granite walls and now, suddenly, on his left, came the booming reply from the saluting battery on the castle. By the time the gulls had finished their renewed protest, the sloop was at anchor in the roads at St Peter Port, her sails furled and her gig lowered. Cormorant remained only long enough to land her passengers, leaving again for Falmouth as soon as the gig had returned. Delancey looked about him and thought that there was twice the activity he had ever seen in St Peter Port before. There were ships in the harbour, more in the roads, with boats going to and fro and goods being carted into the warehouses. A longshoreman took his gear on a barrow and Delancey walked behind it to the watch-house where his belongings could be left in safety. He inquired about the whereabouts of the Prince and was given directions to a warehouse fronting the harbour. As Delancey passed the town church, a column of infantry made its way up High Street; Guernsey was evidently at war.

  The Prince of Bouillon’s headquarters were marked only by the sentry who stood guard at the entrance. Delancey was shown a ladder by which he reached the first floor, finding himself at a door which opened on a temporary office. The opening above the quayside to which bales and barrels would normally be hoisted had been roughly boarded over, leaving only a makeshift window from which the harbour could be seen. Facing it, seated at a kitchen table, was a young officer of his own rank. There were a few more chairs and a map nailed on the wall. There was no other furniture save the paper and ink on the table and a telescope placed on the top of a barrel. Delancey made his bow and introduced himself. “I have a letter here for His Highness,” he reported formally, “and I must deliver it to him in person.” The Prince’s staff officer was called Bassett and seemed a cheerful young man. “The Prince should be here within the next few minutes,” he assured his visitor. “Pray be seated and tell me your errand.”

  “I should tell you with pleasure if I had myself been told,” said Delancey. “My orders were merely to report here.”

  “My guess,” said Bassett, “is that you are to have temporary command of the cutter Royalist. Am I right, sir, in supposing that you speak French and are familiar with these waters?”

  “I am a Guernseyman, sir, and no stranger here.”

  “You are the very man we need then. If you come to the window I will point out the vessel you are to command.” The cutter was alongside the quay and seemed to be the centre of feverish activity.

  “She should be ready for sea tomorrow, rigged, armed and provisioned for one month. You will have a master’s mate, boatswain, midshipman, cook and carpenter’s mate, with a corporal of marines as well. These are picked men, you will understand, not the cutter’s regular crew.”

  “And what do I have to do?”

  “The captain would rather tell you that himself. He’ll be here presently. There is to be a conference here tomorrow, by the way, at which you will have to be present. The lieutenant-governor will be there—General Small—and with him General the Lord Moira.”

  “Lord Moira? Here?”

  “He arrived the day before yesterday.”

  “Did he, though? Did he come in disguise?”

  “No, and he’ll be at tomorrow’s review.”

  “A review?”

  “Yes, it’s His Majesty’s birthday.”

  “So it is. I had forgotten that. So all the world (Robespierre included) will know that Lord Moira is here. Might not the French conclude that something is being planned?”

  “That they may guess but they won’t know what the plan is. That secret has been well kept.” There was some movement on the floor below and Bassett added, “I think that will be the captain.” A minute later he and Delancey stood to attention as D’Auvergne entered. “Lieutenant Delancey reporting for duty,” said Bassett and Delancey presented the captain with his sealed letter from Portsmouth. D’Auvergne sat at the table, breaking the seal and quickly glancing through the contents. He was middle-aged but vigorous, with good features, stern expression and the intolerant and humourless look of a fanatic.

  “Sit down, Mr Delancey,” said D’Auvergne. “And welcome to my squadron. I am glad to have you aboard.” He smiled briefly, looking more human for a moment and then asked:

  “Do you know the French coast and would you dare approach it after dark?”

  “Yes, your Highness.”

  “That is the mission for which you have been chosen.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  “You will have the temporary command of the cutter Royalist. With her you will enter a small French harbour, which will have been captured by our friends, and land there a British agent. More of that tomorrow. In the meanwhile you shall take command of the Royalist. I will say a few words to the crew and tell them that you are to lead them on special service. Mr Burrows, master’s mate, will meet us on board with a muster list of the seamen and marines and a summary of the stores. Where is your own sea-chest?”

  “At the watch-house, sir.”

  “Good. Mr Bassett, you will see to it that Mr Delancey’s gear is sent on board the Royalist.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  “And now, Mr Delancey, when your immediate work has been done I should like you to dine with me at the Golden Lion. There are some matters we shall have to discuss and some other officers I want you to meet. Two o’clock, then, at the Inn. Tomorrow you must be here at midday for the conference at which the details will be settled. You will have a few days after that during which you can exercise your men. In the years to come this may well be described as the turning point of the war. The role you are to play is of the highest importance and can make all the difference between victory and defeat. You will do well, Mr Delancey, of that I am sure.”

  Chapter Two

  THE ROYALIST

  THE DINNER in a private room at the Golden Lion was a pleasant and convivial occasion. The other guests were Major Moncrieff of the 7th Regiment, Lieutenant Bassett and a French émigré, the Vicomte Pierre de Mortemart. At one stage Moncrieff asked the prince about his property in France. There followed a description of the Castle of Navarre and the surrounding forest of Evreux, a hundred thousand acres of woodland with great lakes and islands and exotic birds. D’Auvergne also spoke of the Elysium, a garden which was planned round a single perfect statue, a nude masterpiece representing the Goddess of Youth. He described the scene when his adoption as heir was announced, the moment when he was girded with the sword of Turenne, the moment when the trumpets sounded a fanfare, when the guns fired their salute from the terrace. It had seemed so real at the time! It seemed, in retrospect, a mere fairy story. If true, it related (surely) to some other and forgotten world. In all likelihood the castle and its magic garden would by now have ceased to exist. The prince himself was like no man that Delancey had ever met. With his air of authority went an extraordinary aura of romance, and he held them all spellbound for as long as he talked. Delancey realised with a shock that the Revolution must have destroyed the prince’s inheritance, probably for years and quite possibly for ever. Then a turn in the conversation revealed the prince in a different role, the rescuer of French aristocrats, the centre of a system for gaining intelligence. In some complex way he was fighting a war of his own, a war of wits instead of guns, a war which would not end so much with a British victory as with restoration of the monarchy in France.

  Back in the Royalist and trying to sleep that night, Delancey thought over the conversation at dinner. How strange it all seemed! But even St Peter Port was not the place he had known in his younger days. It was now bustling and alive, with troops and seamen everywhere, with nobles and priests who had fled from France, with concerts and assembly balls—yes, and a theatre as well. As a centre for gaining intelligence from France it would be hard to improve upon. It must, for that matter, be as useful to the French for gaining intelligence about Britain. But were these French-speaking islanders loyal to George II
I? That was hard to say. It was easier to assess their reaction to Robespierre. Many of the Guernseymen were devout followers of Mr John Wesley. They might trade with the enemy but they would do nothing directly to help the cause of the ungodly.

  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.