Philosophy is a game with objectives and no rules. Mathematics is a game with rules and no objectives. War has open objectives and flexible rules; it is not a game.
“Are they allied with the Americans?”
“No. I think they just hate all of us.” Larry and Mike stood by the vast floor-map, now showing a closeup of eastern North America. Soult was busy clearing his lines of communications in Illinois by fighting off the local natives. Bernadotte was moving on Miamis while the tiny American garrison there was fighting their own battle with the tribes. From Illinois, Soult would continue on to Fox and Bernadotte would occupy Kentucky. Ney had consolidated his troops in the Huron territory and was moving down the Lake Ontario shore. The best invasion route – down Lake Champlain, Lake George and the Hudson – was blocked by British possession of the old fort at Ticonderoga. So Ney sent a small detachment to seize the budding shipyard of Sackett’s Harbor and concentrated on reducing the forts along the St Lawrence River. Control of the St Lawrence and Lake Ontario would provide the French with a secure water-borne supply route.
Bernadotte easily defeated the small American garrison in Miamis in November and pushed on through the early frost into Kentucky. The French North American squadron bade a fond farewell to New Orleans and sailed through the Florida Straits and up the Florida coast.
December brought evidence that the Americans were not intending to passively sit this war out; they invaded Guadeloupe, although without enough troops to effectively invest the island’s fortifications. The French North American squadron swept through Chesapeake Bay, encountering two American armed merchantmen that ran for cover in the shallows. A boat attack carried both ships, but one cut her anchor and grounded and the other was set afire before she surrendered. Two American brigs were run down and captured by French frigates off Cape Hatteras a few days later. Reports of American troop movements in the Carolina piedmont country led Bernadotte to summon Soult east to join him in Kentucky.
January of 1809 brought a delegation of clergymen with complaints about the Empire’s treatment of the Church. Conferring, the team agreed that decreasing their Innovation rating was a good idea and so gave in to the Church’s request.
Summoned urgently from France, the Marin de Ponant arrived off Guadeloupe to find the American fleet long gone. Leaving the lone American brigade to flounder on the rocky ground of Guadeloupe, the fleet set out immediately for the Georgia coast.
Larry looked at the map of northern Italy and smiled. “What’s funny now?” Steve asked.
“Just remembering a favorite book of mine, where the hero rescues the King of England from the evil Genoese. They have the King captive ‘cause he owes them a lot of money, and they put him in a castle up in the mountains. The hero and his friends have to free the King and smuggle him out of the country.”
“Well, the siege of Genoa is over, man! Stig! I guess one hundred artillery pieces talk loud enough for anyone to hear!”
“Yeah. Bing! One Italian city-state annexed. Now let’s see if we can get out of this war in America.”
Minutes later. “Crap. All I asked for was the two trading posts we just took! And they turned me down!”
“Hey, Larry? We got the Genoan fleet. I’m going to add the ships and transports to our Mediterranean fleet, but do you think we should keep the galleys?”
“Nah, Mike. They cost too much for what they deliver. Whack ‘em.”
The aged councilor stood on the pier and watched the French sailors towing the last Genoese warships out of the harbor. They had stripped all the decoration and gold trimmings from the last galleys and run them up on the beach; they looked as forlorn as stranded fish gasping out their lives in the alien air.
A last party of matelots dropped over the galleys’ sides, shouting cheerfully as thin tendrils of smoke thickened and then twisted with heat-shimmer into tongues of flame. The old councilor forced himself to watch, tears streaming down his cheeks, as the last of the legendary galleys of Genoa burned to charcoal.
At last he turned away, gathering his cloak about himself in the January air. He would return home now, and as for the future… they would see what the future would bring. The French had appointed a governor but had left the council in place; they hadn’t even bothered to arrest them. He couldn’t decide whether to be relieved or insulted.
Admiral Rosily had led the North American squadron north from Cape Hatteras to cruise off New York harbor, but aside from alarming the populace they had accomplished nothing. Reports from the frigate
La Prudente had led him to believe there were American frigates in Chesapeake Bay, and in keeping with French doctrine he decided to snap up a detached force. When he sailed up into the bay he’d been horrified to see the entire American fleet anchored in Hampton Roads. Only the fact that the Americans had been as surprised as he, had allowed him to get away at all. In the narrow waters and fast currents of the bay he’d had a difficult time fighting clear, and they’d lost a frigate and the last battleship in their line to the Americans even so.
He was proceeding down the coast to refit in New Orleans when he encountered a small American squadron off Cape Fear. They ran out to sea, straight into Admiral Paul Brueys and the Marin de Ponant and, caught between the two forces, promptly surrendered. After consultation, the admirals decided to return to the Chesapeake and pit their twenty-four ships of the line to the American twelve.
Arriving off Chesapeake Bay on February 14th, they were held outside by wind and tide for a crucial twenty-four hours. In the weeks since the last battle, the Americans had anchored their ships in an arc around Old Point Comfort, facing west. Nowhere to be seen were the two French ships that had been captured only two weeks before; Brueys supposed they were up the Elizabeth River at the American naval base at Norfolk.
Brueys was of a mind to draw off, but Rosily, in the van, was close enough to see what his senior could not. The French fleet had slipped in from an angle that prevented the American scouting frigates from returning to give the alarm. Unwarned, and having no reason to believe the main French fleet was in their waters, many of the American ships had sent crews ashore to work in the shipyard or to load water and stores. And the wind was right, and the tide was high.
Even as Brueys began signaling to avoid withdraw, Rosily’s ships forged into the shoaling waters between the American line and the shore. The last in line,
Connecticut, was raked through her stern windows and then hit from each side by
Aquilon and
Robuste. As he later stated in his ‘Memoirs’, Brueys was appalled at the prospect of such a chaotic melee, but saw more danger in failing to support his exposed vanguard. Signal flags went up from
L’Orient and cheers went up from every sailor.
L’Orient herself, being very deep of draft, led a group up the outside of the American force and took the American flagship, the vast 120-gun
Pennsylvania, under fire. Around
L’Orient, confusion reigned as each French captain decided whether to steer inshore or out. Six made it inshore, the seventh,
Heureux, grounded on a shoal, nearly causing collisions among the ships astern of her and preventing any others from going inshore.
The engagement, begun late in the afternoon of February 16th, raged on into the night, but eventually the French superiority in numbers began to tell. And then came the climactic turning point of the battle as the wind shifted and the tide turned.
Every schoolboy today can recite the famous poem that begins, “The boy stood on the burning deck…” yet few know it tells of the horrors of this action. And horrors there were in plenty – the ships blazing at each other from point-blank range, blindingly bright in the deepening twilight. Cannon firing from the shore into friend and foe alike, small boats of American seamen attempting to rejoin their ships and being smashed by French canister and grape-shot. And desperate boarding parties armed with cutlass, pike and pistol grappling hand-to-hand on decks that were slick from spilled blood and entrails.
No-one can be certain of the exact sequence of events, but it is known that French sharpshooters wounded Commodore John Rodgers in the arm and leg. He refused to leave the quarterdeck, but his first officer called for a doctor. The same sharpshooters smashed the doctor’s lantern and the lantern oil blazed up with terrible speed. The
Pennsylvania’s depleted crew was unable to even slow the raging fire, and as her stays burned and the mizzenmast came down the crew went swarming down it into the water.
The flames spread throughout the huge ship, tracing her tarred rigging and igniting her sails like fireworks.
L’Orient was able to cut her grapnel lines and float free before the flames reached deep into the vast American ship’s belly and detonated the twenty tons of gunpowder stored in her magazines. Most of her enormous bulk simply vanished, the force of the explosion driving splinters inches deep into the timbers of ships on all sides. The American
Virginia was hit by two cannon that had been blown into the air and which crashed entirely through the ship and out her bottom. Ripped open by two gaping holes, she rolled down on her right side and quickly sank.
The Death of the Pennsylvania
In the curious deafened silence that followed the blast – loud enough to be heard in Richmond and in Washington – the Americans lost all heart and their shattered ships began to surrender. Came the dawn, the American fleet in the Chesapeake had ceased to exist.
As he related in his ‘Memoirs’, Admiral Brueys landed a large party of sailors and marines the following day and dispatched a note to the dockyard commander. He offered, politely, not to burn the town and dockyard if his ships and captured crew were returned to him. The offer was speedily accepted.
“It’s going to cost us 300 gold to replace our losses in ships!” Larry snapped.
“Yeah, but we destroyed over 1000 gold in American ships,” Mike responded.
“They’re gonna have to pay for this!”
“I thought the idea was to get out of this war, fast, and concentrate on Italy.”
“I’m just saying that we deserve something here.”
“We just got a huge trading center and we’re hurting the Americans 3-to-1, man. Chill down. We don’t want to get bogged down in a land war in America.”
“Hah. It’ll take a year or more to recover our stability, and in the meantime I want to put the
hurt on these…”
“Don’t say it, man. Remember the cameras.”
“
People. I want them to
hurt.”
“Hey, steady, man – it’s just a game.”
“Crap! I forgot about that stupid loan! We’re too broke to pay it!”
Marshal Michel Ney had sheltered his men through the rigors of winter and had spent the early spring months consolidating French control of the Adirondack region. Now, after months of gathering intelligence from his scouts and friendly fur-trappers, he had a moderately decent map and a fresh understanding of the complications ahead.
The direct route from his camps on the Ontario shore - Ogdensburg or Watertown in New York State – would take him into trackless wilderness and rugged mountains. The traditional route, down Lake Champlain, was in British hands. The only practicable route he could see was to seize Oswego province and move east from there along Lake Oneida and the connecting rivers to Albany. But he was deeply uneasy about a supply line that would run so far through such rough country in enemy territory.
Before he could do more than lay in supplies and do some training, his scouts reported an American column under General Hull moving up the lakeshore from Oswego. He caught them down around Sandy Creek, breaking their militia infantry with ease. Their lack of any sizeable cavalry force meant he could pursue them, and the enemy column evaporated into the woods long before they reached Oswego.
Soult was desperately sick of the whole business. His men were camped in the forest in the middle of nowhere, foraging for game and what the few scant settlements could offer. They might get supplies upriver, now that the ice had melted, but moving anything inland was virtually impossible. He was convinced now that it would have been far better to make an invasion by sea rather than traipsing through this wilderness.
Nevertheless, Bernadotte was in command, and it was his plan, and Soult knew Bernadotte well enough to know there would be no arguing with him. Still, something must be in the offing; the summons to this conference had been urgent enough.
He cursed; it was still cold here in the woods, and it was hard work keeping the pine branches out of his face. He dared not hurry the horse; if the animal put a foot wrong and fell they’d probably have to shoot it. “And if I break my leg, they’ll shoot me,” he said under his breath and chuckled. They wouldn’t really shoot him, but he might wish they had.
Bernadotte had insisted on traveling in some style. His rough wooden cabin might draw snickers of derision elsewhere, but here in the Kentucky woods it was an enviable luxury. Soult was looking forward to getting out of the damp April chill and was remarking to his adjutant about seeing to the horses when General Tallard approached.
“Marshal Soult! Thank God you’ve come!”
“Why, Maurice, I am sure it is pleasant to see me – and very pleasant to see you, also, after this winter of staring at trees and stones! But whatever has you so disturbed, my old? Is Marshal Bernadotte well?”
“He is gone, Soult. Gone! He received an Imperial rescript last week, and he immediately sent for you and departed for New Orleans.”
“Whatever is going on, Maurice!”
“The Kingdom of Sweden has asked for permission to install Marshal Bernadotte as King – do not laugh, I beg of you, Soult, it is quite true. The Emperor wrote to Bernadotte to ask if he would accept the position, and I have never seen the Marshal move so quickly! He is undoubtedly halfway to New Orleans by now. And whatever shall we do now, Soult? Did the Marshal confide his plan of operations in you?”
“Did he have one, do you mean, my old? If he did he took it with him, and no loss. Come, let us find a fire, and a table, and a map. We’ll have some of Bernadotte’s brandy, too, unless he managed to take that. And we will see what we may do, yes?”
“Stig! We got a stability point for Bernadotte!”
“Given his command ratings, that’s a fair trade. Hey Mike! Your colony in Palak-a-whatever just came in, so we’re finally getting some… Oh, crap. Lannes just died.”
There is, in the final analysis, no good way to die. There are, undoubtedly, some ways that we might agree are better than others, but there is no truly good way.
Marshal Jean Lannes had, like so many of his fellow Marshals and generals, come up through the ranks in the Revolutionary army. Unlike some, he studied hard, observed with a keen eye, and never passed up an attempt to add to his knowledge of the art of war.
His tenure in India had been glorious, in the main, and he was thoroughly accustomed to the princely perquisites that came with ruling the vastly wealthy east.
So on this twenty-third day of May he had held a conference with civil officials in the midmorning, enjoyed a light luncheon with a few of his officers, and dallied away the afternoon with his mistress.
He had enjoyed a lengthy hot bath in a pool-sized tub, been dressed by beautiful female servants, had his hair trimmed and pomaded, and enjoyed a last honeyed cake. In the evening he intended to dine with his prefect of police, in order to stay up to date on rumors of discontent and plots of insurrection.
As he strolled out of the door of the fine house he maintained for his mistress, all that crossed his mind was an image of her perfect brown breasts – and a bullet, moving from right temple to the lower left of his skull, at several hundred miles per hour.
His escort, who had jumped into their saddles as the marshal came out of the door, rode out and caught the culprit easily. He was, to everyone’s surprise, an elderly American who’d been the object of some scandal and was abroad when the war broke out. He’d spent the last seven months of war cursing the French for expelling him from Louisiana; quite a lot of witnesses attested to that. They had a very proper tribunal, and they shot him, of course.
No one there had ever heard of Aaron Burr.
