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When Admiral Boscawen's warships had passed the islet of Grande Comorandière at the southern tip of Gabarus Bay, he gave the order for Her Majesty's fastest ships to overtake him and form a line ahead. They were to head south and then loop back toward the enemy in order to confront them in more favorable conditions.
All of this did not go unnoticed by the French officers and common sailors.
But instead of feeling worried, they all felt a violent urge to fight to the death against this enemy who claimed to be the master of the seas and oceans.
In the bay, amid broken masts and tattered flags, several tall columns of black smoke rose into the sky.
Some ships were sinking into the waters. Meanwhile, the sailors and civilians who had managed to throw themselves into the sea were trying to climb onto something, anything, to escape death.
Many were not so fortunate and disappeared with their ship or into the waves, dragged into the depths by the weight of their clothes.
The French sailors could have rescued them, sent out boats, but a battle was ongoing, and their kingdoms were at war. They might have felt some sympathy for them, but in the end, they were still enemies.
In times of war, everyone knew, people died—not just soldiers. It was inevitable.
From their point of view, these people should not hold it against them. If they had any grievances, they could only blame fate and their officers, who had the brilliant idea of bringing them all here, into French waters—their waters.
Aymar Joseph de Roquefeuille, despite his stern demeanor, was not a cruel man devoid of feeling. How could he completely ignore those screams and cries for help? It was all the more difficult because, unlike his crew, he spoke English—a natural thing, given that he had received a good education.
He could understand all those cries and pleas for help.
The count grimaced and looked away.
He had seen a woman who could have been his own. She was holding a child in one arm, and with her free arm, she was struggling to stay afloat by clinging to a broken yardarm.
"Hold your course, Mr. Clermont. Head toward those ships," he said as calmly as possible.
"At your command," the helmsman replied in an almost somber tone.
Through his spyglass, he looked off into the distance, as if trying to think of something other than those cries.
He saw the HMS Namur, all its sails full, but being overtaken by its more agile and much faster allies.
Hmm, they've gained a good lead and are already starting to turn around. And they're adopting a classic line-ahead formation. They want a fair fight.
He quickly glanced around and located his allies.
We have enough ships, but… I'm not sure we can win. After all, this is the Royal Navy.
While the officers of the Count de Roquefeuille were discussing the best tactic to adopt, a crazy idea began to take root in his mind.
Seeing them lined up like that, Aymar Joseph de Roquefeuille thought about taking the strategy they had implemented at Ouessant and in this bay even further.
If it works…
"Gentlemen, I have an idea that could get us all killed—or worse, earn us the wrath of His Majesty—but if it works, it could revolutionize naval strategy and secure our place in the history books. Are you with me?"
"Yes, sir!"
"Naturally, we are at your command!"
"Give your orders!"
Since the events at Ouessant, the captain of the Hector had gained a solid reputation aboard his ship and throughout the squadron. His officers trusted him, and none opposed the plan, even though they didn't yet know it.
"Thank you for your trust. My notebook, if you please. Here are the flags you will raise."
The officers obeyed the orders without question, and following the secret instructions in a small notebook, they raised the correct flags to communicate with the other ships.
The Hector then surged forward, soon followed by the rest of Duquesne de Menneville's squadron.
***
Aboard the Foudroyant, the flags raised above the Hector were quickly interpreted.
I see, thought Michel-Ange Duquesne de Menneville. But isn't it a bit premature?
"Sir," said the second officer, a seasoned man with a face covered in wrinkles and a large brown star-shaped birthmark on his forehead, "isn't this too risky?"
"It's risky, yes. But a conventional battle would cost us many men and take too much time. Hmm, I don't know why, but I feel like giving him a chance. Raise the flags. Tell all ships to follow the Hector."
"At your command!"
***
Count de Roquefeuille, standing at the stern of his ship, smiled as the squadron leader, Duquesne de Menneville—fifteen years his senior—accepted his audacious plan.
When he was just born, the very young Duquesne de Menneville had already been on his first campaign under his father. To be approved by such a man was an honor.
"Perfect. Mr. Clairmont, don't change a thing. Take us straight into the enemy!"
"M-mister."
In the mouth of the old helmsman, close to fifty, it sounded like a question. Nonetheless, he obeyed in silence and did not alter his course.
Quickly, the French line almost came into direct contact with the English line, crossing perpendicularly.
***
When the British admiral saw that those damned French had finally decided to face him in a fair fight, he initially nodded in satisfaction.
He was confident in his chances of victory, as each of his men was rigorously trained. There was no doubt in his mind that the glorious Royal Navy would emerge victorious, with one English gunner being worth two French ones. Moreover, he had excellent ships with him. The finest was, of course, his flagship, the magnificent HMS Namur, but there was also the formidable HMS Princess Amelia.
Its only flaw, however, was its slowness.
Before long, he found himself at the rear of the line.
No matter. In the end, we shall triumph, and there will be nothing left of this squadron but broken planks. The survivors will be added to our fleet!
He adjusted his orders accordingly so that the two lines could meet. The first ship changed course, as if trying to return to the open sea, and the others followed.
"Should we open fire, Admiral?"
"No, that wouldn't be honorable. Look, their lead ship hasn't fired its bow chasers. Wait for my orders."
"As you wish, sir."
Logically, the lead French ship should begin to slow down to turn and align with Admiral Boscawen's line, but the more time passed, the more he began to doubt.
Why isn't it turning?! Surely, he wouldn't dare break my line, would he?
After over a century of tradition, it was hard to adapt to such a change in behavior. It was like facing an entirely new opponent.
Oh no!
"Watch out! They're trying to break the line!"
In this position, the English ships could do almost nothing.
***
The Hector charged with force between the HMS Prince of Orange and the HMS Somerset, and as soon as it was precisely between the two enemy ships, it unleashed all its cannons.
The HMS Prince of Orange attempted to turn to return fire, but its rudder was far too small to allow such a maneuver in such a short time. The Hector, however, managed to strike its bow and part of its left side. On the other side, the same happened with the HMS Somerset, whose rudder was reduced to splinters and whose stern was devastated.
"Magnificent broadside, gentlemen! Reload quickly!" ordered the count, his face transformed by the excitement of battle.
After passing through the enemy fleet, the Hector turned to port to move away from the coast and its rocks.
It then sailed up the British line on the right, knowing the enemy had not opened their gun ports on that side.
It was a perfect situation for the French captain. In less than two minutes, the ship had reloaded all the port-side cannons.
"Sir, all guns are ready!"
"Fire!"
"Fire!"
BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM
The unfortunate HMS Somerset was just beginning to open its gun ports when, from stern to bow, thirty-seven cannons fired. A shower of wood, rigging, men, and equipment fell into the sea from the impact.
The strike was so violent that the ship began to list to port, throwing off the balance of all aboard.
Amidst the smoke, the French ship continued on its course as if eager to give way to the next ship in line and attack the British ship ahead of the HMS Somerset.
When it was the Célèbre's turn to engage, the British line was largely in disarray.
The HMS Prince of Orange now presented its side, which had not suffered much in the previous exchange. The French ship unleashed such a ferocious broadside that those aboard thought these contemptible Frenchmen were seeking revenge for the past week trapped in the port of Louisbourg.
The HMS Somerset, now without its rudder, was a perfect target for the gunners. Unfortunately, it was too late for the Hector to deliver a second broadside.
As he kept a close eye on the broken British line, Count de Roquefeuille observed what was happening behind him.
Good, the officer sighed deeply in relief. So far, so good. The Célèbre is turning to port, moving away from that big ship. Hmm, sixty-four guns, perhaps? he mused as he assessed the HMS Prince of Orange, which in reality had seventy guns.
His gaze shifted to the next ship, the Océan.
It must have at least ten more guns than the other. That's good. I'm glad we have that one with us.
He then saw the Océan take position and smiled as he watched it fire an elegant broadside against the HMS Prince of Orange.
***
The Océan was not just facing one, but two ships in reality, as the HMS Sunderland, which was positioned behind the HMS Prince of Orange, had caught up and begun to overtake it.
Nevertheless, due to the evasive maneuvers made by these two ships, one was partially obscured by the other, so only a portion of the second ship's cannons could reach the French vessel.
"Fire!" ordered the master gunner.
BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM
To starboard, they fired on the HMS Prince of Orange and to port on the vanguard of Admiral Boscawen's fleet, which could not respond and was still trying to understand what was happening. The British admiral no longer knew what to do: maintain the line, split the formation, or make a new loop?
The distance was still more than enough to cause serious damage aboard their ships.
Adam, sweating from head to toe, stepped aside to let his comrades work. There were enough of them that each had a role to play. Out of curiosity, he glanced outside the ship, risking a peek through the gun port.
It's so bright out there! Damn! I can barely see a thing! It feels like I'm blind!
After a moment of adjusting, he managed to see the hull of a massive enemy ship that was every bit as impressive as the Océan. It was yellow and black with many golden decorations.
The sea, being quite calm, perfectly reflected this ship in waters so deep blue one could easily believe they were in the Caribbean or the Mediterranean. However, many pieces of floating wood, peacefully drifting about, spoiled the view somewhat.
Wow! The view from the main mast must be incredible! But there's no way I'm climbing up there!
While a few cannonballs ended their journey in the water, most reached their massive target.
The HMS Lancaster was thus targeted. Meanwhile, the results were rather modest against the HMS Sunderland, which only had its stern exposed. The most impressive hits were once again on the HMS Prince of Orange.
BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM
Another shower of debris rained down on the calm waters of Gabarus Bay.
The English line was already in bad shape, but it worsened when the French squadron decided to break through the British line at a second point, just as Count de Roquefeuille had proposed moments before the clash.
The count's goal was to surround as many ships as possible and crush them under their fire, just as they had done earlier in the bay.
***
The Juste, commanded by the Allouarn brothers, was the first to leave the line and form a new one. The formation was so chaotic that there was no shortage of targets.
François de Saint-Allouarn pointed out a large gap between the British ships.
"Here!"
Thick black smoke was billowing from the HMS Somerset, which was now doomed, so the Juste did not linger there. It sailed up the English line and positioned itself to attack the frigate HMS Shannon.
"Take cover!"
Immediately, all the sailors on the deck of the Juste ducked, hoping that death would not come for them this time.
The Duke of Richelieu did the same alongside the Allouarn brothers at the stern of the ship.
Because their ship was coming head-on, as if trying to ram the HMS Shannon, the broadside was not very effective. Saint-Allouarn's ship silently endured the enemy's fire, and as soon as it passed behind the frigate, it turned to expose its side bristling with cannons.
It didn't take long for the seventy-four-gun ship to overpower the frigate, which only had about twenty guns.
A good broadside caused the deaths of many sailors.
"The enemy is on fire!"
"Hooray!"
The fire that had started aboard the HMS Shannon, initially modest, quickly became uncontrollable. Soon, it spread to the sails, completely depriving the ship of its ability to maneuver. It could now only drift with the currents and be captured if the French won this battle. Of course, that was if it didn't sink first.
"Well done!" François de Saint-Allouarn congratulated his crew. "Rosmadec, after the battle, double rations of wine for everyone!"
"Haha! Aye aye, captain!"
The Juste continued its course and arrived alongside the HMS Princess Amelia, which had drifted out of the line, just as the Océan arrived.
This was an enormous three-deck, eighty-gun ship requiring several hundred men aboard.
Fortunately for the Océan, they were in the same class of ships. However, the British gunners aboard the Princess Amelia were much better than those aboard the French ship. Thanks to rigorous training, they could fire almost two shots for every one their adversaries fired!
The presence of the Juste somewhat rebalanced the forces.
"They're launching grappling hooks!"
"Prepare to repel boarders!"