Here was my entry into the short story competition. I enjoyed writing it as it was a departure from my usual subject matter but, alas, not good enough. For your edification, dear reader, I present:
Introduction
In our world, the Spanish Armada’s failed attempt to clear the English Channel eventually doomed the Catholic Cause in England and brought about the rise of British Naval Supremacy, largely due to good luck and a bad replacement admiral. In this world, Álvaro de Bazán, 1st Marquis of Santa Cruz and the Hero of Lepanto survived his illness and livedto command the Spanish Armada. Under his energetic and spirited leadership, the Armada forced a battle with the English Fleet at Plymouth, scattering them. He seized the Isle of Wight as a base of operations and scoured the Channel, opening the way for the Duke of Parma’s formidable army to storm England for the first time in nearly 600 years. The Most Catholic King of Scotland, James VI, was placed on the English throne and the Protestant rule of England ended, scattering the Anglican, Puritans and other targeted religions underground and into exile.
Now with Hapsburg rulers in Spain, Portugal, Germany and Italy, and with their British and Papal allies constantly threatening French interests and independence, France’s Kings have turned religiously tolerant both to counter the Inquisition-minded Hapsburgs and to draw in as much manpower and brainpower from the oppressed Protestants trapped in the Hapsburg orbit. It is 1680 and the Sun King continues to fight Hapsburg dominance.
Heave to Port
Phillipe’s eyes drift shut and he tips forward a few inches until a tree arrests his fall. He is asleep. It is cold and dark. The short Frenchman is on his tenth hour of sentry duty so we can excuse him for dozing this way. Were we to take a peek into the life of Phillipe, we would discover that he finds his duty boring and that he complains about it to all of his acquaintances. We would also learn that he is constantly assigned to this post by a Corporal who finds his constant griping distasteful and so, out of spite, keeps him at this post. And since, for Phillipe, every day blends into the next without any excitement or interest to spice it, we shall give thanks that this story is not, in fact, about Phillipe the Sentry. No, we shall leave the most uninteresting story of Phillipe the Sentry as we found it, leaned against a tree and fast asleep. Instead, let us focus our attentions on those two young men creeping past the sleeping sentry and into the city of Brest. Whatever they are doing this night, moving somewhat quietly along the shoreline, well, it must be more intriguing than Phillipe’s tale of petty grievances and stolen naps.
Were we able to read the minds of these two men, whose blue coats we see in the moonlight are those of the famed Royal Navy, we would know quite a bit about their adventure in the countryside and the charms of the daughters of stout Breton farmers but these two fellows, whatever their shortcomings, are gentlemen and so their stories are only for other junior officers of Minister Colbert’s great fleet, subject to suitable embellishments, to be certain.
You may not be familiar with the famed Royal Navy, so I will share with you a summary of its existence and a few of its exploits. The Royal Navy of France is the child of Finance Minister Jean-Baptiste Colbert, that stalwart defender of French Liberty. During the drawn out and inconclusive 3rd Habsburg War, as the armies of France and the Holy Roman and Spanish Emperors battled along the Italian and German frontiers, Colbert advanced a plan to break the supply lines between Barcelona and Genoa through a naval blockade of the latter. This would force the Duke of Savoy and his Imperial Army back to Florence and relieve pressure on the Alpine Front. Such a move might even bring Milan back into the French orbit.
However, to achieve the balance of forces necessary for the blockade, a diversion was required to draw off the imposing Spanish Fleet operating in the Mediterranean. Seizing, or at least threatening, the Treasure Fleet would do it, but the French would need more ships to pull off such a gambit. The City of Brest, with its most excellent deep harbor, was chosen for the base of operations for this new fleet. To speed up production, the city’s rapidly expanding shipyards began to churn out warships to a standardized design and size. It was a novel approach and it worked. In a feat of national unity and engineering prowess, six months later a small fleet of 23 two-decker frigates, each mounting 48 cannon, sailed out of the port and headed for the New World. These small ships could never face a mighty War Galleon broadside to broadside, but they could certainly terrorize the Spanish Main and if lucky, Minster Colbert hoped, could haul away a Spanish Treasure Ship or two.
I will not trouble you with the nautical adventures of this fleet, of how they hoodwinked the Governor of Granada and how they, against all odds, overwhelmed a squadron of War Galleons with innovative Line of Battle tactics. Suffice to say that they captured the full Treasure Fleet of 1668. Suffice also to say that this massive boon put the new Royal Navy and Minister Colbert quite high in Louis XIV’s favor. With lavish funds suddenly available, a timely Turkish invasion of Hungary and a rebellion in the Netherlands were organized and supported. These additional diverting headaches for the Hapsburg Monarchs brought the war to a fairly satisfactory and rapid conclusion. To be fair, the Turks and Dutch were displeased with the sudden French egress from combat, but Louis XIV is King of France and Navarre, not of the Netherlands and Turkey so their laments fell upon deaf ears.
Now, thanks to Minister Colbert’s continued attentions, the tireless work of expert expats, and Spanish Gold, Brest boasts the largest docks and shipyards in the world. It is also the home port of the Royal Navy’s mighty Atlantic Fleet with its 25 two-decker 74 gun Ships of the Line and the massive three-decker 98 gun Flagship Soleil-Royal. Supported by 10 Frigates, the Atlantic Fleet is one of the three battle fleets of the Royal Navy and because of its continuous action, and the unequaled power of its ships, it is the most prestigious posting in the Royal Navy. Blockading the Thames with the Channel Fleet or small clashes in the Mediterranean Fleet in a 64 gunner carry none of the glory of storming New World cities or plunder and combat along the Spanish Main in one of the greatest ships at sea. “Admirals are made in the Atlantic” is a common Royal Navy saying and it is to this fleet that our intrepid young officers belong. It is also to this fleet they are returning under the cover of night.
And now, curious reader, I will answer your question: who are these two fellows that we have chanced upon creeping closer to the massive earthworks protecting Brest from the landward side? Of course, it would be far more discreet to let them pass unnoticed, but then, we would be back to Phillipe, who is still asleep, so I think this indiscretion can be forgiven. Ever since the exploits of the Royal Navy brought such prominence and prestige to the sea service, its ranks have drawn more and more of the sons of the aristocracy to its colors. What was once a second-rate service and the dumping ground of laggards and failures now carries a prestige equal to the armies and the Admiral of France stands on equal footing with the Marshal of France.
The budding rivalry between the army and the navy would have made Phillipe a local hero had he spotted the lieutenants, for the capture of deserting seamen is common enough but deserting noblemen? Well, it would have been awkward to be certain and Phillipe would have earned a very lucrative bonus from his prizes. Tragically for him, he slumbers on. As consolation, we should notice that a small smile has drifted across his mustachioed face. Perhaps he dreams of a warm fire and a softer bed? And now apologies to you, dear reader, for here I have promised excitement and romance following our two intrepid seamen but instead I have wandered back to poor Phillipe. Let us make haste to follow the young men lest our minds wander over the sleeping sentinel once more.
Of the two young men, the taller is a blonde haired Gascon who is called d’Artegnan, for that is his name. With his mustache and chin puff, he is the spitting image of his namesake and father, the late Marshal of France and Lieutenant-Captain of the King’s Musketeers, Charles de Batz-Castelmore d’Artegnan, who perished seven years ago at the siege of Maastricht, the last act of the 3rd Hapsburg War. Like his father, d’Artegnan is hot tempered, bold and a clever strategist. It was his idea for the two friends to make off to the countryside to seek adventure and the company of young ladies before the fleet sails.
The shorter fellow is a Basque, a proud son of Pamplona. Like many of his countrymen, he serves in the French Navy. Lieutenant Miguel de Marinelarena is a minor son of a minor noble house, but his house is noble and this son of a sailor has already traversed the Atlantic more than once in search of cod fish before joining the Royal Navy to search for Spanish Gold. He is quieter than his friend and is often amused by the antics of his energetic companion, but de Marinelarena is a solid fighter, a brilliant sailor and completely unflappable in even the worst of circumstances. This is good because d’Artegnan is highly skilled at creating terrible circumstances.
“How,” you may be asking yourself dear readers, “did the Royal Navy come to be filled by so many foreigners, such that a son of Gascony can be hobnobbing with a Basque from the wrong side of the Pyrenees while serving under a Cornish Captain?” Perhaps you are not asking yourself this at all. Perhaps this is because you were previously unaware of the national origin of their Captain. Perhaps it is because you are not terribly concerned as to why these two gentlemen are friends, but rather you are eager to observe their progress. Well, I can assure you that their progress is as yet unobserved so we do have a moment to explore why the naval service should be such a polyglot, relatively egalitarian force.
When Minister Colbert first envisioned this new Royal Navy, he knew that France did not have the seafaring traditions of Spain or England. While his plan would produce the ships, the green crews and officer corps could very well lose the day simply from inexperience. With the tremendous expenses and prestige involved, to say nothing of the whole of the 3rd Hapsburg War hanging in the balance, Colbert recruited the very best sailors and administrators he could find, wherever they may have been born. His biggest coup was the recruitment of Samuel Pepys from England. Of course, to call it ‘recruitment’ is a bit of a stretch since Mr. Pepys was facing execution as a Protestant Saboteur following the failures of the 2nd Anglo-Dutch War. ‘Rescue’ is really a better term and Samuel Pepys repaid his rescuer to the best of his ability, serving King Louis XIV as Minister of the Navy. Pepys has organized a fleet unlike any other in the world; the ships are without equal and a blossoming naval tradition has the confident French fleet ready to fight any opponent in any waters.
To aid in recruitment he offers higher wages, a lighter form of discipline, and, unheard of, a chance to earn promotion within the fleet regardless of condition of birth or religion making a career path from seaman to commissioned officer a real possibility for a sailor smart enough, tough enough and lucky enough. To supplement these numbers, service in the fleet can replace years of prison service and, borrowing a practice from his homeland, press gangs supplement crews still short on volunteers.
So, the pride of French nobility, whether Huguenot or Catholic, serve alongside Catholic Basques, English Anglicans, Calvinist Dutchmen and many others on board the ships of the Royal Navy. While few commoners can ever expect to rise from deck hand to captain of a Ship of the Line the few fellows who pull off that monumental rise give an added determination to the rest of the fleet’s crews. Indeed, James Wilson, Captain of the 74 gun Victorieux, a man who is not just a Protestant but a proud English fisherman from Cornwall, holds sway over the ship on which serve the two intrepid lieutenants whose progress we have so neglectfully followed. Now, as they approach the eastern edge of the city’s massive earthworks, the shorter companion finally questions the wisdom of this approach.
“D’Artegnan, why are we moving along the coast? Now we shall have to hug the city wall itself when we return to the gates,” de Marinealarena asks in his soft and low voice.
The Gascon, speaking in a voice at once loud, warm and boisterous, and at a volume which causes his companion some discomfort in their current situation, slaps his friend on the back. “Marne,” d’Artegnan insists on giving his closest friends nicknames, “that coastal route of mine kept us clear of the sentries and I have made arrangements at the rally gate up ahead so we shall slip quite easily into port. We shall be in our quarters long before Captain Codfish calls us aboard.” D’Artegnan also insists on giving his superior officers nicknames, though he tends not to use these on formal occasions.
The companions scan the walls for sentries before breaking cover. At this point, I feel it is necessary to point out that ‘earthworks’ was not the proper name to give these walls as it might create the wrong image in your mind. The mistake can be forgiven if the image created was ‘massive fortification.’ For it is massive, terraced and sloped to deflect cannonballs and mounting an impressive array of artillery itself. True, grass often grows along the top, and the whole is based on a great pile of earth, so ‘earthworks’ is not entirely misleading, but the reader might instead have the image of fresh dug earth and ditches, the image of imminent battle rather than of an easy peace and, while battle is imminent, it won’t be fought along the ramparts of Brest. In retrospect, ‘earthworks’ was a terrible choice of words, but it is too late now, for the young officers have broken from the cover of the beach cliffs and are approaching the walls themselves.
I should point out that D’Artegnan is not very solvent at the moment, so he is about to turn to his friend to acquire the necessary bribes to assure entry to the city. I suppose it is bad form for the author to share such personal financial information with you, dear reader, but I was afraid you would witness the following exchange and assume d’Artegnan is a skinflint, which he most certainly is not. The Gascon is more than generous with his coin, which is why he is so frequently in arrears. De Marinealarena, I should mention, is not a ‘soft touch,’ but rather has been the beneficiary of d’Artegnan’s largess on more than one occasion and so does not mind covering his friend’s financial shortfalls. Perhaps I am over-explaining the situation, but it is too late now to second guess, for they are approaching the heavy doors and d’Artegnan has already given a special knock upon them.
“Password,” is the gruff reply.
“Spanish Dollar.”
The gates swing open and our two gentlemen are met by a gap-toothed smile encased in a mass of soft, pock-marked flesh. “It just takes one, good sir.” He winks at d’Artegnan and offers a meaty hand.
The Gascon brushes a hand across his waist belt. “It seems I have forgotten my purse Marne. Be so kind as to tip this gentleman for me?” D’Artegnan pats the shoulder of the guard and pushes into the city.
De Marinealarena shakes his head and smiles. Then, he reaches into his own purse and runs his fingers over several coins. Only one is the size of a Spanish Dollar. The others are much smaller and of stamped brass. With a soft exhale, he withdraws the substantial piece of silver and drops it into the hand of the guard, who regards it carefully before cramming it into his own light grey waistcoat.
And now, dear reader, I am glad I shared with you the financial details of the Gascon, for having witnessed these events, I would have felt d’Artegnan was quite the scoundrel for thus treating his impoverished companion were I unaware of their relationship and I suspect you would feel the same, little realizing the esteem the two hold for each other or the poverty the Gascon periodically finds himself in. Since he is one of the two heroes of this adventure, it would be awkward if we despised him, especially since we would have been so wrong in our assessment!
Now, they walk free and easy, for their quarters are close and the odds of discovery are miniscule. They share a laugh as d’Artegnan, pantomiming a hefty, foppish lout, trips over the night chains raised across an intersection and nearly falls the full steep hill down towards the shipyards. De Marinealarena laughs harder than his friend, but that is to be expected since he is not the one acquiring the bruises.
Captain Wilson gave his officers and crew a special curfew, earlier than the general curfew. Victorieux sails at first light, along with the rest of the Atlantic Fleet, and desertion is always at serious problem before the fleet sails for the Caribbean. Most of the ships captains place similar injunctions on their crews to stay home after dark. Thousands of unfortunate sailors assigned to less trusting captains than the one our heroes report to will spend their last night in port locked on board their ships, under marine guard. In fact, of the 36 ships preparing to sail in the morning, most have their crews under some sort of armed guard. Victorieux, having spent the last month in dry-dock undergoing repairs is one of the few ships drawn up to shore. Most of the fleet bobs offshore with pinnaces handling provisioning and shore leaves. Should they be nabbed skipping their curfew, as officers they would not be flogged, but it is probable they would end their careers on the shabby, obsolete galleys which patrol the Mediterranean Sea and not even in a proper fleet.
Of course, they are not the only sailors breaking curfew tonight as they both know because the first thing de Marinealarena said to his friend once they entered the city was “well d’Artegnan, that guard has been acting quite the doorman this evening, his coat pockets were bursting with silver.” And then d’Artegnan made a joke about Captain Codfish slipping out of the city to eat a whole pig, a joke much more amusing if you could but see the pantomime or knew Captain Wilson’s reputation as a gourmand, before falling over a chain and down a hill.
And now, the two young Lieutenants we have been following since we caught sight of them approaching the city are nearly home. They have entered the house of the elderly Madame d’Trousseu, where they have engaged the attic space, and have crept up the stairs, taking care not to waken their elderly landlady. This behavior is in their favor, dear reader, for their motivation is not to avoid discovery, rather their motive is concern for the old woman for whom they sincerely care. They grow even quieter at the top of the stairs and at the same time they both grow cold. This is because there is clearly a light on in their rented rooms, visible under the tightly closed doors.
“Codfish,” d’Artegnan whispers under his breath, “it has to be.”
And now de Marinealarena feels his heart sink. It is brief and the Basque does not withhold blame from himself for the night’s adventure, but for a moment the thought does cross his mind that d’Artegnan might not be the best person to associate with. Previously, I don’t mind telling you, their scrapes have been largely consequence-free, and Marne can be forgiven if, for a moment, he is concerned about his career: three years spent as a midshipman, a real struggle with the Lieutenant’s Board Examination and finally a posting to the Atlantic Fleet, a career arc that should see him make Captain. This could all be finished once they open the door. D’Artegnan, he is certain, because of his family name, will make Captain at some point, even if he is relegated to the Channel or Mediterranean Fleets, but Marne needs the Atlantic Fleet. He needs battle, recognition and the funds necessary to pay for the commission as a Captain and no fleet can provide all three like the Atlantic Fleet with its annual Razzia.
I should really pause a moment to explain that term. The Razzia is the tour the Atlantic Fleet makes to the New World, a tradition that started with Colbert’s first Atlantic Fleet in 1668. Along the way, they stop in on local Spanish colonies, much to the chagrin of the locals, waging an informal and undeclared war. Piracy, as the Spanish prefer to call it. A lieutenant can expect 5 shares of any seized materials, which can be a considerable sum. Captain Codfish owes his high rank to a fortune and reputation acquired as a 2 share Ship’s Master when the Treasure Fleet was seized.
The two young men look at each other, swallow hard and then throw open the door. On the other side is not, as d’Artegnan feared, Captain Codfish. However, before you rejoice, dear reader, let me hasten to assure you that the two young officer’s disappearance has been discovered by Captain Wilson. Reports arrived from a fast merchantman of a Spanish flotilla approaching Brest and, fearing his fleet would be bottled up in the harbor, Admiral Duquesne the fleet to sail before first light. The ships are ready to sail anyway, so it is the work of a moment for the captains to rouse their crews, especially those captains with the forethought to trap their crews on board. As Captain Wilson made the rounds to call out his officers, he discovered their aggravating excursion and acted accordingly.
If the young officers’ apartment was closer to the river they might have noticed the ships of the fleet beginning to slip from the port, but they are not. Instead, they are noticing the members of the Royal Marines waiting to secure their arrest. Having briefly explained the fleet’s departure and the lieutenants’ current unfortunate position, the marines produce irons intended for the wrists of our protagonists.
“There is no need for that, my good man,” d’Artegnan waves off the shackles; “we shall go peacefully. We have played a grand game and lost. To the donjon, gentlemen, lead on!” D’Artegnan waves his arm with a flourish, but this last bit of theatrics is wasted effort, for the marines are not paying attention. They are instead focused on Marne. Specifically, the backside of that gallant Basque as he takes flight down the staircase.
“To Hell with going quietly! I’m catching that ship!” De Marinealarena shouts as he bolts for the staircase. Seeing as his whole career has vanished in a puff of smoke, we can forgive him his profanity and his failure to obey a representative of the law. He flies down the stairs and is almost out of sight before d’Artegnan and the marines completely comprehend what has happened.
“It would seem my associate had determined there is another round to play.” D’Artegnan bows to the marines before fleeing as well. D’Artegnan struggles to close the distance with his friend, but he does manage to do so. While the two would like to make a straight line for the docks, they are required to shift down alleyways and, occasionally, backtrack in their desire to shake the pursuing marines.
You are probably worried that the marines will pursue our heroes relentlessly, so I will put your mind at ease early on. The marines are dressed in their heavy uniforms, carrying their heavy muskets and, knowing that the officer who set them to this task will be half a world away within hours, give up the chase quickly. For them, this night has brought nothing but rewards. They get to remain in Brest on full pay rather than sailing crammed into the man o’ war. They have no duties since their prisoners escaped and their pockets are crammed with silver as Captain Wilson tipped them liberally to replace their lost Caribbean prize money. For the marines, a month long drunken carouse is about to begin.
For our heroes, a mad flight to the docks ends with them watching Victorieux kedging out of the harbor. Kedging is a process that might need some explanation. Whenever a large vessel docks in a port, they inevitably leave. It is impractical to raise sail right on the docks and trust to wind and rising speed to keep a ship aimed in the right direction, that direction being the sea rather than the shore. So large ships kedge; a process as dull as the name. First, the ship’s pinnace rows out a bit, hauling an anchor. Then then anchor is dropped to the bottom and the crew winds the ship forward to the anchor. A second light anchor is loaded onto the pinnace, which is rowed a distance away again and this second anchor is dropped. The first anchor is weighed and the ship drawn to the second anchor. This process is repeated until the ship is in open water and the sails are ready to unfurl or until everyone aboard dies of boredom. But, kedging aside, sails are unfurling all around as 25 great Ships of the Line and the tremendous Flagship Soleil-Royal slowly move towards open water and this is really an impressive sight to behold, or would be were it not still dark.
“We are in luck Marne,” d’Artegnan pats his friend on the back. With their ship crawling out to sea, this remark appears to be ill-conceived. However, d’Artegnan notices something you may have missed, especially since it has not been brought to your attention. There is a rowboat tied off to the dock the Victorieux has just vacated. De Marinealarena, as quick witted as his friend, spots the dinghy and they leap into it without exchanging another word. Each takes hold of an oar and they row as one, the long paddles digging into the water and driving them towards the ship.
Within twenty minutes, the two officers, caked in sweat, pull alongside Victorieux as it waits for the pinnace to feed out another length of anchor line. The rowboat’s progress has been a source of interest for the crew who watched its approach through the pre-morning gloom, so there are plenty of hands available when d’Artegnan calls out “permission to come aboard?”
Amid the cheers and jeers of their crewmates, the two gentlemen are hauled up a rope and onto the ship and after much back patting and gentle ribbing, our young lieutenants breathe a sigh of relief, for they have made it. However, there is one person who did not come around to either applaud or mock the duo’s efforts this night. So, with a little trepidation, de Marinealarena asks the Ship’s Master where Captain Wilson has gone.
“The Captain watched your approach for a while. He’s in his cabin now and I expect he’ll be wanting to upbraid you a bit in private so you best be hurrying on.”
Madame d’Trousseu is an excellent landlady. She goes out of her way to make certain her ‘sons,’ as she invariably terms each one, are well fed and well cared for. She will even, in a pinch, repair and patch the clothing of her tenants. Captain Wilson, who always recommends her boarding house to the officers, commissioned and noncommissioned, on his ship, is thinking just this as he waits for his missing Lieutenants to enter his cabin. As he sits on his narrow bed and feels it sag and creak underneath his tremendous frame, he remembers when he was a young Lieutenant booking a room at Madame d’Trousseu’s. Wilson recalls the adventures he and his companions had in the countryside with the daughters of stout Breton farmers and, I daresay, a smile creeps across his broad features, but it vanishes quickly at the sound of a knock on the door. I doubt, dear reader, I am spoiling the story if I point out that the knock belongs to our young sailors.
The two young men walk boldly into the room and doff their hats, bowing low to their commander. “My Captain, let me explain why you found our rooms in an altogether depopulated state,” d’Artegnan flashes his winning smile, “the explanation was quite enough for your agents and I think you will find it equally engaging.”
Captain Wilson, with an audible groan, draws himself to his feet. He does so, I assume, so that his tremendous frame, well over six feet tall, can really dwarf the two lieutenants and fully establish who is quite in charge of this situation. “Please, d’Artegnan, do not bother with the story. As delightful as your fantasies usually are, I simply haven’t the time right now. Save it and we can discuss it over brandy one night.” The Captain runs his hand through his thinning, cropped hair. “I was coming to gather my trustiest lieutenants because of our expedited departure, when I discovered they are not as trusty as I hoped. Were we not leaving today, I would have you both removed from my ship. Should you pull this stunt again I shall have you both keel-hauled, regardless of your fancy relations. You know your duties, you know the ship and you knew the crew, so your careers live another day.”
“Captain, you will not be disappointed in this second chance,” d’Artagnen begins, for the Gascon recovers quickly.
“Shut up d’Artegnan, I have not finished.” However, it is clear that the Captain has finished. His anger, though tremendous when roused, dissipates quickly. He was once like d’Artegnan and he is very fond of de Marinealarena. “You’ll be relieving the pinnace rowers when we next switch anchor. They need a rest and you’ve proven your skills at the oars. Now be gone you rascals.”
As our two heroes jostle one another good-naturedly leaving the cabin, Phillipe, the sentry stirs. Some internal mechanism has clicked and he starts awake rather suddenly. Within moments he has straightened his clothing and wiped his face and now looks the part of the ever-vigilant sentinel. His relief is approaching along the road and Phillipe does not want to be caught sleeping. That would be 50 lashes!
“Anything of note?” His corporal asks as Phillipe stands at the ready.
“No, nothing, sir. It was a quiet night.”
Heave to Port
Introduction
In our world, the Spanish Armada’s failed attempt to clear the English Channel eventually doomed the Catholic Cause in England and brought about the rise of British Naval Supremacy, largely due to good luck and a bad replacement admiral. In this world, Álvaro de Bazán, 1st Marquis of Santa Cruz and the Hero of Lepanto survived his illness and livedto command the Spanish Armada. Under his energetic and spirited leadership, the Armada forced a battle with the English Fleet at Plymouth, scattering them. He seized the Isle of Wight as a base of operations and scoured the Channel, opening the way for the Duke of Parma’s formidable army to storm England for the first time in nearly 600 years. The Most Catholic King of Scotland, James VI, was placed on the English throne and the Protestant rule of England ended, scattering the Anglican, Puritans and other targeted religions underground and into exile.
Now with Hapsburg rulers in Spain, Portugal, Germany and Italy, and with their British and Papal allies constantly threatening French interests and independence, France’s Kings have turned religiously tolerant both to counter the Inquisition-minded Hapsburgs and to draw in as much manpower and brainpower from the oppressed Protestants trapped in the Hapsburg orbit. It is 1680 and the Sun King continues to fight Hapsburg dominance.
Heave to Port
Phillipe’s eyes drift shut and he tips forward a few inches until a tree arrests his fall. He is asleep. It is cold and dark. The short Frenchman is on his tenth hour of sentry duty so we can excuse him for dozing this way. Were we to take a peek into the life of Phillipe, we would discover that he finds his duty boring and that he complains about it to all of his acquaintances. We would also learn that he is constantly assigned to this post by a Corporal who finds his constant griping distasteful and so, out of spite, keeps him at this post. And since, for Phillipe, every day blends into the next without any excitement or interest to spice it, we shall give thanks that this story is not, in fact, about Phillipe the Sentry. No, we shall leave the most uninteresting story of Phillipe the Sentry as we found it, leaned against a tree and fast asleep. Instead, let us focus our attentions on those two young men creeping past the sleeping sentry and into the city of Brest. Whatever they are doing this night, moving somewhat quietly along the shoreline, well, it must be more intriguing than Phillipe’s tale of petty grievances and stolen naps.
Were we able to read the minds of these two men, whose blue coats we see in the moonlight are those of the famed Royal Navy, we would know quite a bit about their adventure in the countryside and the charms of the daughters of stout Breton farmers but these two fellows, whatever their shortcomings, are gentlemen and so their stories are only for other junior officers of Minister Colbert’s great fleet, subject to suitable embellishments, to be certain.
You may not be familiar with the famed Royal Navy, so I will share with you a summary of its existence and a few of its exploits. The Royal Navy of France is the child of Finance Minister Jean-Baptiste Colbert, that stalwart defender of French Liberty. During the drawn out and inconclusive 3rd Habsburg War, as the armies of France and the Holy Roman and Spanish Emperors battled along the Italian and German frontiers, Colbert advanced a plan to break the supply lines between Barcelona and Genoa through a naval blockade of the latter. This would force the Duke of Savoy and his Imperial Army back to Florence and relieve pressure on the Alpine Front. Such a move might even bring Milan back into the French orbit.
However, to achieve the balance of forces necessary for the blockade, a diversion was required to draw off the imposing Spanish Fleet operating in the Mediterranean. Seizing, or at least threatening, the Treasure Fleet would do it, but the French would need more ships to pull off such a gambit. The City of Brest, with its most excellent deep harbor, was chosen for the base of operations for this new fleet. To speed up production, the city’s rapidly expanding shipyards began to churn out warships to a standardized design and size. It was a novel approach and it worked. In a feat of national unity and engineering prowess, six months later a small fleet of 23 two-decker frigates, each mounting 48 cannon, sailed out of the port and headed for the New World. These small ships could never face a mighty War Galleon broadside to broadside, but they could certainly terrorize the Spanish Main and if lucky, Minster Colbert hoped, could haul away a Spanish Treasure Ship or two.
I will not trouble you with the nautical adventures of this fleet, of how they hoodwinked the Governor of Granada and how they, against all odds, overwhelmed a squadron of War Galleons with innovative Line of Battle tactics. Suffice to say that they captured the full Treasure Fleet of 1668. Suffice also to say that this massive boon put the new Royal Navy and Minister Colbert quite high in Louis XIV’s favor. With lavish funds suddenly available, a timely Turkish invasion of Hungary and a rebellion in the Netherlands were organized and supported. These additional diverting headaches for the Hapsburg Monarchs brought the war to a fairly satisfactory and rapid conclusion. To be fair, the Turks and Dutch were displeased with the sudden French egress from combat, but Louis XIV is King of France and Navarre, not of the Netherlands and Turkey so their laments fell upon deaf ears.
Now, thanks to Minister Colbert’s continued attentions, the tireless work of expert expats, and Spanish Gold, Brest boasts the largest docks and shipyards in the world. It is also the home port of the Royal Navy’s mighty Atlantic Fleet with its 25 two-decker 74 gun Ships of the Line and the massive three-decker 98 gun Flagship Soleil-Royal. Supported by 10 Frigates, the Atlantic Fleet is one of the three battle fleets of the Royal Navy and because of its continuous action, and the unequaled power of its ships, it is the most prestigious posting in the Royal Navy. Blockading the Thames with the Channel Fleet or small clashes in the Mediterranean Fleet in a 64 gunner carry none of the glory of storming New World cities or plunder and combat along the Spanish Main in one of the greatest ships at sea. “Admirals are made in the Atlantic” is a common Royal Navy saying and it is to this fleet that our intrepid young officers belong. It is also to this fleet they are returning under the cover of night.
And now, curious reader, I will answer your question: who are these two fellows that we have chanced upon creeping closer to the massive earthworks protecting Brest from the landward side? Of course, it would be far more discreet to let them pass unnoticed, but then, we would be back to Phillipe, who is still asleep, so I think this indiscretion can be forgiven. Ever since the exploits of the Royal Navy brought such prominence and prestige to the sea service, its ranks have drawn more and more of the sons of the aristocracy to its colors. What was once a second-rate service and the dumping ground of laggards and failures now carries a prestige equal to the armies and the Admiral of France stands on equal footing with the Marshal of France.
The budding rivalry between the army and the navy would have made Phillipe a local hero had he spotted the lieutenants, for the capture of deserting seamen is common enough but deserting noblemen? Well, it would have been awkward to be certain and Phillipe would have earned a very lucrative bonus from his prizes. Tragically for him, he slumbers on. As consolation, we should notice that a small smile has drifted across his mustachioed face. Perhaps he dreams of a warm fire and a softer bed? And now apologies to you, dear reader, for here I have promised excitement and romance following our two intrepid seamen but instead I have wandered back to poor Phillipe. Let us make haste to follow the young men lest our minds wander over the sleeping sentinel once more.
Of the two young men, the taller is a blonde haired Gascon who is called d’Artegnan, for that is his name. With his mustache and chin puff, he is the spitting image of his namesake and father, the late Marshal of France and Lieutenant-Captain of the King’s Musketeers, Charles de Batz-Castelmore d’Artegnan, who perished seven years ago at the siege of Maastricht, the last act of the 3rd Hapsburg War. Like his father, d’Artegnan is hot tempered, bold and a clever strategist. It was his idea for the two friends to make off to the countryside to seek adventure and the company of young ladies before the fleet sails.
The shorter fellow is a Basque, a proud son of Pamplona. Like many of his countrymen, he serves in the French Navy. Lieutenant Miguel de Marinelarena is a minor son of a minor noble house, but his house is noble and this son of a sailor has already traversed the Atlantic more than once in search of cod fish before joining the Royal Navy to search for Spanish Gold. He is quieter than his friend and is often amused by the antics of his energetic companion, but de Marinelarena is a solid fighter, a brilliant sailor and completely unflappable in even the worst of circumstances. This is good because d’Artegnan is highly skilled at creating terrible circumstances.
“How,” you may be asking yourself dear readers, “did the Royal Navy come to be filled by so many foreigners, such that a son of Gascony can be hobnobbing with a Basque from the wrong side of the Pyrenees while serving under a Cornish Captain?” Perhaps you are not asking yourself this at all. Perhaps this is because you were previously unaware of the national origin of their Captain. Perhaps it is because you are not terribly concerned as to why these two gentlemen are friends, but rather you are eager to observe their progress. Well, I can assure you that their progress is as yet unobserved so we do have a moment to explore why the naval service should be such a polyglot, relatively egalitarian force.
When Minister Colbert first envisioned this new Royal Navy, he knew that France did not have the seafaring traditions of Spain or England. While his plan would produce the ships, the green crews and officer corps could very well lose the day simply from inexperience. With the tremendous expenses and prestige involved, to say nothing of the whole of the 3rd Hapsburg War hanging in the balance, Colbert recruited the very best sailors and administrators he could find, wherever they may have been born. His biggest coup was the recruitment of Samuel Pepys from England. Of course, to call it ‘recruitment’ is a bit of a stretch since Mr. Pepys was facing execution as a Protestant Saboteur following the failures of the 2nd Anglo-Dutch War. ‘Rescue’ is really a better term and Samuel Pepys repaid his rescuer to the best of his ability, serving King Louis XIV as Minister of the Navy. Pepys has organized a fleet unlike any other in the world; the ships are without equal and a blossoming naval tradition has the confident French fleet ready to fight any opponent in any waters.
To aid in recruitment he offers higher wages, a lighter form of discipline, and, unheard of, a chance to earn promotion within the fleet regardless of condition of birth or religion making a career path from seaman to commissioned officer a real possibility for a sailor smart enough, tough enough and lucky enough. To supplement these numbers, service in the fleet can replace years of prison service and, borrowing a practice from his homeland, press gangs supplement crews still short on volunteers.
So, the pride of French nobility, whether Huguenot or Catholic, serve alongside Catholic Basques, English Anglicans, Calvinist Dutchmen and many others on board the ships of the Royal Navy. While few commoners can ever expect to rise from deck hand to captain of a Ship of the Line the few fellows who pull off that monumental rise give an added determination to the rest of the fleet’s crews. Indeed, James Wilson, Captain of the 74 gun Victorieux, a man who is not just a Protestant but a proud English fisherman from Cornwall, holds sway over the ship on which serve the two intrepid lieutenants whose progress we have so neglectfully followed. Now, as they approach the eastern edge of the city’s massive earthworks, the shorter companion finally questions the wisdom of this approach.
“D’Artegnan, why are we moving along the coast? Now we shall have to hug the city wall itself when we return to the gates,” de Marinealarena asks in his soft and low voice.
The Gascon, speaking in a voice at once loud, warm and boisterous, and at a volume which causes his companion some discomfort in their current situation, slaps his friend on the back. “Marne,” d’Artegnan insists on giving his closest friends nicknames, “that coastal route of mine kept us clear of the sentries and I have made arrangements at the rally gate up ahead so we shall slip quite easily into port. We shall be in our quarters long before Captain Codfish calls us aboard.” D’Artegnan also insists on giving his superior officers nicknames, though he tends not to use these on formal occasions.
The companions scan the walls for sentries before breaking cover. At this point, I feel it is necessary to point out that ‘earthworks’ was not the proper name to give these walls as it might create the wrong image in your mind. The mistake can be forgiven if the image created was ‘massive fortification.’ For it is massive, terraced and sloped to deflect cannonballs and mounting an impressive array of artillery itself. True, grass often grows along the top, and the whole is based on a great pile of earth, so ‘earthworks’ is not entirely misleading, but the reader might instead have the image of fresh dug earth and ditches, the image of imminent battle rather than of an easy peace and, while battle is imminent, it won’t be fought along the ramparts of Brest. In retrospect, ‘earthworks’ was a terrible choice of words, but it is too late now, for the young officers have broken from the cover of the beach cliffs and are approaching the walls themselves.
I should point out that D’Artegnan is not very solvent at the moment, so he is about to turn to his friend to acquire the necessary bribes to assure entry to the city. I suppose it is bad form for the author to share such personal financial information with you, dear reader, but I was afraid you would witness the following exchange and assume d’Artegnan is a skinflint, which he most certainly is not. The Gascon is more than generous with his coin, which is why he is so frequently in arrears. De Marinealarena, I should mention, is not a ‘soft touch,’ but rather has been the beneficiary of d’Artegnan’s largess on more than one occasion and so does not mind covering his friend’s financial shortfalls. Perhaps I am over-explaining the situation, but it is too late now to second guess, for they are approaching the heavy doors and d’Artegnan has already given a special knock upon them.
“Password,” is the gruff reply.
“Spanish Dollar.”
The gates swing open and our two gentlemen are met by a gap-toothed smile encased in a mass of soft, pock-marked flesh. “It just takes one, good sir.” He winks at d’Artegnan and offers a meaty hand.
The Gascon brushes a hand across his waist belt. “It seems I have forgotten my purse Marne. Be so kind as to tip this gentleman for me?” D’Artegnan pats the shoulder of the guard and pushes into the city.
De Marinealarena shakes his head and smiles. Then, he reaches into his own purse and runs his fingers over several coins. Only one is the size of a Spanish Dollar. The others are much smaller and of stamped brass. With a soft exhale, he withdraws the substantial piece of silver and drops it into the hand of the guard, who regards it carefully before cramming it into his own light grey waistcoat.
And now, dear reader, I am glad I shared with you the financial details of the Gascon, for having witnessed these events, I would have felt d’Artegnan was quite the scoundrel for thus treating his impoverished companion were I unaware of their relationship and I suspect you would feel the same, little realizing the esteem the two hold for each other or the poverty the Gascon periodically finds himself in. Since he is one of the two heroes of this adventure, it would be awkward if we despised him, especially since we would have been so wrong in our assessment!
Now, they walk free and easy, for their quarters are close and the odds of discovery are miniscule. They share a laugh as d’Artegnan, pantomiming a hefty, foppish lout, trips over the night chains raised across an intersection and nearly falls the full steep hill down towards the shipyards. De Marinealarena laughs harder than his friend, but that is to be expected since he is not the one acquiring the bruises.
Captain Wilson gave his officers and crew a special curfew, earlier than the general curfew. Victorieux sails at first light, along with the rest of the Atlantic Fleet, and desertion is always at serious problem before the fleet sails for the Caribbean. Most of the ships captains place similar injunctions on their crews to stay home after dark. Thousands of unfortunate sailors assigned to less trusting captains than the one our heroes report to will spend their last night in port locked on board their ships, under marine guard. In fact, of the 36 ships preparing to sail in the morning, most have their crews under some sort of armed guard. Victorieux, having spent the last month in dry-dock undergoing repairs is one of the few ships drawn up to shore. Most of the fleet bobs offshore with pinnaces handling provisioning and shore leaves. Should they be nabbed skipping their curfew, as officers they would not be flogged, but it is probable they would end their careers on the shabby, obsolete galleys which patrol the Mediterranean Sea and not even in a proper fleet.
Of course, they are not the only sailors breaking curfew tonight as they both know because the first thing de Marinealarena said to his friend once they entered the city was “well d’Artegnan, that guard has been acting quite the doorman this evening, his coat pockets were bursting with silver.” And then d’Artegnan made a joke about Captain Codfish slipping out of the city to eat a whole pig, a joke much more amusing if you could but see the pantomime or knew Captain Wilson’s reputation as a gourmand, before falling over a chain and down a hill.
And now, the two young Lieutenants we have been following since we caught sight of them approaching the city are nearly home. They have entered the house of the elderly Madame d’Trousseu, where they have engaged the attic space, and have crept up the stairs, taking care not to waken their elderly landlady. This behavior is in their favor, dear reader, for their motivation is not to avoid discovery, rather their motive is concern for the old woman for whom they sincerely care. They grow even quieter at the top of the stairs and at the same time they both grow cold. This is because there is clearly a light on in their rented rooms, visible under the tightly closed doors.
“Codfish,” d’Artegnan whispers under his breath, “it has to be.”
And now de Marinealarena feels his heart sink. It is brief and the Basque does not withhold blame from himself for the night’s adventure, but for a moment the thought does cross his mind that d’Artegnan might not be the best person to associate with. Previously, I don’t mind telling you, their scrapes have been largely consequence-free, and Marne can be forgiven if, for a moment, he is concerned about his career: three years spent as a midshipman, a real struggle with the Lieutenant’s Board Examination and finally a posting to the Atlantic Fleet, a career arc that should see him make Captain. This could all be finished once they open the door. D’Artegnan, he is certain, because of his family name, will make Captain at some point, even if he is relegated to the Channel or Mediterranean Fleets, but Marne needs the Atlantic Fleet. He needs battle, recognition and the funds necessary to pay for the commission as a Captain and no fleet can provide all three like the Atlantic Fleet with its annual Razzia.
I should really pause a moment to explain that term. The Razzia is the tour the Atlantic Fleet makes to the New World, a tradition that started with Colbert’s first Atlantic Fleet in 1668. Along the way, they stop in on local Spanish colonies, much to the chagrin of the locals, waging an informal and undeclared war. Piracy, as the Spanish prefer to call it. A lieutenant can expect 5 shares of any seized materials, which can be a considerable sum. Captain Codfish owes his high rank to a fortune and reputation acquired as a 2 share Ship’s Master when the Treasure Fleet was seized.
The two young men look at each other, swallow hard and then throw open the door. On the other side is not, as d’Artegnan feared, Captain Codfish. However, before you rejoice, dear reader, let me hasten to assure you that the two young officer’s disappearance has been discovered by Captain Wilson. Reports arrived from a fast merchantman of a Spanish flotilla approaching Brest and, fearing his fleet would be bottled up in the harbor, Admiral Duquesne the fleet to sail before first light. The ships are ready to sail anyway, so it is the work of a moment for the captains to rouse their crews, especially those captains with the forethought to trap their crews on board. As Captain Wilson made the rounds to call out his officers, he discovered their aggravating excursion and acted accordingly.
If the young officers’ apartment was closer to the river they might have noticed the ships of the fleet beginning to slip from the port, but they are not. Instead, they are noticing the members of the Royal Marines waiting to secure their arrest. Having briefly explained the fleet’s departure and the lieutenants’ current unfortunate position, the marines produce irons intended for the wrists of our protagonists.
“There is no need for that, my good man,” d’Artegnan waves off the shackles; “we shall go peacefully. We have played a grand game and lost. To the donjon, gentlemen, lead on!” D’Artegnan waves his arm with a flourish, but this last bit of theatrics is wasted effort, for the marines are not paying attention. They are instead focused on Marne. Specifically, the backside of that gallant Basque as he takes flight down the staircase.
“To Hell with going quietly! I’m catching that ship!” De Marinealarena shouts as he bolts for the staircase. Seeing as his whole career has vanished in a puff of smoke, we can forgive him his profanity and his failure to obey a representative of the law. He flies down the stairs and is almost out of sight before d’Artegnan and the marines completely comprehend what has happened.
“It would seem my associate had determined there is another round to play.” D’Artegnan bows to the marines before fleeing as well. D’Artegnan struggles to close the distance with his friend, but he does manage to do so. While the two would like to make a straight line for the docks, they are required to shift down alleyways and, occasionally, backtrack in their desire to shake the pursuing marines.
You are probably worried that the marines will pursue our heroes relentlessly, so I will put your mind at ease early on. The marines are dressed in their heavy uniforms, carrying their heavy muskets and, knowing that the officer who set them to this task will be half a world away within hours, give up the chase quickly. For them, this night has brought nothing but rewards. They get to remain in Brest on full pay rather than sailing crammed into the man o’ war. They have no duties since their prisoners escaped and their pockets are crammed with silver as Captain Wilson tipped them liberally to replace their lost Caribbean prize money. For the marines, a month long drunken carouse is about to begin.
For our heroes, a mad flight to the docks ends with them watching Victorieux kedging out of the harbor. Kedging is a process that might need some explanation. Whenever a large vessel docks in a port, they inevitably leave. It is impractical to raise sail right on the docks and trust to wind and rising speed to keep a ship aimed in the right direction, that direction being the sea rather than the shore. So large ships kedge; a process as dull as the name. First, the ship’s pinnace rows out a bit, hauling an anchor. Then then anchor is dropped to the bottom and the crew winds the ship forward to the anchor. A second light anchor is loaded onto the pinnace, which is rowed a distance away again and this second anchor is dropped. The first anchor is weighed and the ship drawn to the second anchor. This process is repeated until the ship is in open water and the sails are ready to unfurl or until everyone aboard dies of boredom. But, kedging aside, sails are unfurling all around as 25 great Ships of the Line and the tremendous Flagship Soleil-Royal slowly move towards open water and this is really an impressive sight to behold, or would be were it not still dark.
“We are in luck Marne,” d’Artegnan pats his friend on the back. With their ship crawling out to sea, this remark appears to be ill-conceived. However, d’Artegnan notices something you may have missed, especially since it has not been brought to your attention. There is a rowboat tied off to the dock the Victorieux has just vacated. De Marinealarena, as quick witted as his friend, spots the dinghy and they leap into it without exchanging another word. Each takes hold of an oar and they row as one, the long paddles digging into the water and driving them towards the ship.
Within twenty minutes, the two officers, caked in sweat, pull alongside Victorieux as it waits for the pinnace to feed out another length of anchor line. The rowboat’s progress has been a source of interest for the crew who watched its approach through the pre-morning gloom, so there are plenty of hands available when d’Artegnan calls out “permission to come aboard?”
Amid the cheers and jeers of their crewmates, the two gentlemen are hauled up a rope and onto the ship and after much back patting and gentle ribbing, our young lieutenants breathe a sigh of relief, for they have made it. However, there is one person who did not come around to either applaud or mock the duo’s efforts this night. So, with a little trepidation, de Marinealarena asks the Ship’s Master where Captain Wilson has gone.
“The Captain watched your approach for a while. He’s in his cabin now and I expect he’ll be wanting to upbraid you a bit in private so you best be hurrying on.”
Madame d’Trousseu is an excellent landlady. She goes out of her way to make certain her ‘sons,’ as she invariably terms each one, are well fed and well cared for. She will even, in a pinch, repair and patch the clothing of her tenants. Captain Wilson, who always recommends her boarding house to the officers, commissioned and noncommissioned, on his ship, is thinking just this as he waits for his missing Lieutenants to enter his cabin. As he sits on his narrow bed and feels it sag and creak underneath his tremendous frame, he remembers when he was a young Lieutenant booking a room at Madame d’Trousseu’s. Wilson recalls the adventures he and his companions had in the countryside with the daughters of stout Breton farmers and, I daresay, a smile creeps across his broad features, but it vanishes quickly at the sound of a knock on the door. I doubt, dear reader, I am spoiling the story if I point out that the knock belongs to our young sailors.
The two young men walk boldly into the room and doff their hats, bowing low to their commander. “My Captain, let me explain why you found our rooms in an altogether depopulated state,” d’Artegnan flashes his winning smile, “the explanation was quite enough for your agents and I think you will find it equally engaging.”
Captain Wilson, with an audible groan, draws himself to his feet. He does so, I assume, so that his tremendous frame, well over six feet tall, can really dwarf the two lieutenants and fully establish who is quite in charge of this situation. “Please, d’Artegnan, do not bother with the story. As delightful as your fantasies usually are, I simply haven’t the time right now. Save it and we can discuss it over brandy one night.” The Captain runs his hand through his thinning, cropped hair. “I was coming to gather my trustiest lieutenants because of our expedited departure, when I discovered they are not as trusty as I hoped. Were we not leaving today, I would have you both removed from my ship. Should you pull this stunt again I shall have you both keel-hauled, regardless of your fancy relations. You know your duties, you know the ship and you knew the crew, so your careers live another day.”
“Captain, you will not be disappointed in this second chance,” d’Artagnen begins, for the Gascon recovers quickly.
“Shut up d’Artegnan, I have not finished.” However, it is clear that the Captain has finished. His anger, though tremendous when roused, dissipates quickly. He was once like d’Artegnan and he is very fond of de Marinealarena. “You’ll be relieving the pinnace rowers when we next switch anchor. They need a rest and you’ve proven your skills at the oars. Now be gone you rascals.”
As our two heroes jostle one another good-naturedly leaving the cabin, Phillipe, the sentry stirs. Some internal mechanism has clicked and he starts awake rather suddenly. Within moments he has straightened his clothing and wiped his face and now looks the part of the ever-vigilant sentinel. His relief is approaching along the road and Phillipe does not want to be caught sleeping. That would be 50 lashes!
“Anything of note?” His corporal asks as Phillipe stands at the ready.
“No, nothing, sir. It was a quiet night.”
- 1
