Even before the Battle of Lyn was officially declared lost, William Johnson, who had accompanied Brigadier General George Townshend without holding a command, galloped off at full speed to warn Boston of their defeat.

Although Townshend was still alive when he departed, the outcome was already beyond doubt. Even a mere diplomat like him could see it.

As he had feared, George Townshend had proven to be a poor commander. He had made one mistake after another, mistakes so severe that they could only be described as blunders. Even a young officer would not have made so many—at least not all at once.

His first mistake had been acting in haste. Had he been wiser, he would have chosen favorable terrain and provoked the enemy into attacking. This would have given him a defensive advantage and perhaps enough time to receive additional reinforcements from the hinterlands or neighboring provinces.

Johnson’s horse’s hooves hammered the ground as the cool, damp air lashed his face.

Unfortunately, as he reached Georgetown, just across from Boston on a height that offered a stunning view of the city and the bay, he was met with a grim surprise.

The French, audacious as ever, had not only launched a land assault—they had come by sea in overwhelming numbers.

***

Roquefeuil’s fleet, so formidable that no British ship dared approach it, had been blockading Boston Harbor for days.

Yet despite their clear superiority, they kept their distance. The massive batteries and the ships of the line stationed at the harbor’s entrance posed a serious threat.

This stalemate weighed heavily on the crews of both sides—French and English alike.

That day, April 10th, was a somber one. The sky was an unbroken gray.

A steady, brisk wind swept across the deck of the Saint-Michel, the ship commanded by Aymar Joseph de Roquefeuil, punctuated by fierce gusts that made the ropes creak and the sails flap violently. The officer, standing at the stern of his warship, could feel the subtle movements of the proud vessel beneath him.

Like him, like his navy of sailors, the ship seemed restless, as if it yearned for the sound of cannons.

That city was so close, yet so far away!

Even without his spyglass, he could clearly see the rooftops of Boston, the tall church steeples reaching skyward as if to pierce the low-hanging clouds, and the warships guarding them like vigilant watchdogs.

“Haaa… How much longer must we wait?” lamented a senior naval officer beside him in a whisper, exasperated by the inaction.

“A day or two, I think,” replied Roquefeuil in a weary tone.

“Must we truly wait for the Marshal, sir? Doing nothing will lead us nowhere. It might even turn against us.”

Joseph Aymar de Roquefeuil said nothing, but he shared the officer’s sentiment. He was a soldier, so he followed orders, but he was also a man of action. His heart craved battle.

This waiting, this stillness… it wasn’t in his nature. It was all the more frustrating knowing he commanded ships built for war and had plenty of cannons at his disposal!

“Hmm… Let’s provoke them a little, then. Perhaps they’ll react?”

“Yes, sir! Everyone to their stations! Unfurl all sails! Helm to starboard! Gunners, to your positions!”

Once Roquefeuil’s ships unfurled their sails, they quickly gained speed. This sudden change in posture immediately caught the attention of the officers and lookouts aboard the British ships.

Yet they did nothing. They remained anchored.

Eventually, they opened their gun ports facing the sea and brought their fearsome cannons to bear.

The gaping iron muzzles were meticulously aligned, ready to unleash their fury. The guns on the lowest deck were of the highest caliber.

But the French veered away before coming into firing range, as if the entire maneuver had been a mere jest.

Technically, the British could have fired at the French ships, but at such a distance, it was highly unlikely they would hit their targets, let alone inflict any significant damage. The ideal range was just a few dozen meters.

“Hmm? Captain Colmard, come here.”

“Sir?” said the officer, stepping toward his superior.

“Take this,” said Roquefeuil, handing him the spyglass. “Look closely at those ships. What do you see?”

The officer, who appeared to be in his mid-thirties but no older than thirty-eight, raised an eyebrow and silently obeyed. In an instant, he could see the enemy ships as clearly as if they were within arm’s reach.

“T-their waterline… isn’t it unusually low? They’re sitting deep in the water—all of them. This isn’t a maintenance issue, or they would’ve all docked.”

“Then,” said another officer, a lieutenant no older than thirty, “are they all overloaded?”

“Not just overloaded,” Roquefeuil replied after a brief silence. “Overloaded abnormally. Look closely—they’re listing to port.”

All the officers turned sharply toward their commander and quickly grasped what the British had done. A murmur of indignation and disbelief spread through the small gathering.

"These idiots have removed all the cannons on the city side?! Have they gone mad, or are they desperate?!"

"It's certainly the most stupid strategy I've ever seen! It's pure, wild madness! Who had this idea?! They should be beaten to death!"

"Sir", Captain Colmard said as he handed back the spyglass, "their waterline is right at the gunports."

"Yes. I don’t know who had this ‘brilliant idea’, but they took a huge risk."

"It would be criminal not to take advantage of this, sir," suddenly said a young officer with a bright smile, but showing a predatory look.

"I quite agree with you. I have an idea, but it involves enduring several broadsides without being able to retaliate."

Normally, an officer would think twice before embarking on such a risky action, but this was far from the usual situations encountered at sea. Here, there was an opportunity.

Captain Colmard answered fervently, as if there was no hesitation.

"If we can defeat our enemies quickly, it might save more lives than a traditional, longer battle."

Captain Colmard’s words, filled with confidence, were immediately approved by the other officers. They all had immense faith in their officer and in Monsieur de Roquefeuil, the hero of the Battle of Ouessant and the Bay of Gabarus.

"Good. In that case, here’s my plan, and it’s very simple."

When he finished, the men around him looked at him as if he were mad. Their eyes were wide as if he had just realized something.

"Well?

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

"Well, I say I don't want to miss the show, haha! I want to see their faces when they realize their mistake.

"This is madness! I approve!"

***

At the entrance to Boston Harbor, six British ships were lined up, all their guns out. The British nervously observed the French ships of the line without daring to take their eyes off them.

They had strict orders not to raise anchor or set sails. Their only order was to sink any French ships that would attempt to get too close to Boston.

Suddenly, the French ships had moved closer, but just as suddenly changed course as if they had changed their minds.

After what seemed like an interminable wait, putting their nerves to the test, the French turned once again and headed straight for them.

"To all batteries, fire!" thundered British Vice Admiral Charles Saunders aboard the Neptune to deter the enemy from approaching any closer.

Unfortunately, his hopes and prayers were not heard.

Indeed, he was fully aware of the stupidity of Townshend's order, placed above him in the hierarchy by Her Majesty. All his ships were in danger due to the poor distribution of weight on board.

Nothing had changed despite all the arrangements made to compensate for the lack of guns on the starboard side: they were still leaning to the other side.

A massive broadside shook the enormous ship decorated with beautiful golden moldings, and soon after, immense white pillars appeared in the distance, around the enemy ships.

Despite their efforts, no shots hit the target. They raised great splashes of water without harming anyone, except a few fish.

From the quarterdeck of the Neptune, an enormous ship with ninety guns in principle, but now only half of them, Vice Admiral Saunders observed the enemy ships closely. They were forming a nice line and heading straight for them.

"Fire!"

All batteries fired at once at the French ship leading the line, a merchant ship converted into a cargo ship to transport troops and supplies. It suffered terribly but continued to move toward them with all sails set.

It acted as a shield, protecting all the ships behind it by absorbing all the enemy's fire without veering from its course.

"Fire!" Saunders spat, wiping away a bead of sweat from his brow with a nervous gesture from the edge of his fine powdered wig.

A new broadside shredded the figurehead of the French cargo and severely damaged its mast, which was now barely hanging on by a miracle. The French were now very close.

"Prepare for battle!"

The first ship really looked pathetic and was even starting to sink as its mast toppled over, taking part of the rigging with it. That’s when the French line broke.

While the first ship filled with water and silently sank into the waters of the Atlantic, the following ships passed it by, heading straight for the British ships.

Strangely, they showed no sign of wanting to turn to face the anchored ships of Saunders. They were going straight ahead, simply, like enraged bulls.

Saunders realized too late what they were trying to do.

"My God! Raise anchor! Quickly! I’m telling you, raise anchor! All sails out! Turn! Don’t let them..."

"Too late!"

One by one, the heavy French ships collided with the British vessels, which lifted upon impact. The Neptune was also struck head-on by a two-masted cargo ship and began to lean dangerously to starboard. Fortunately, the gunports on that side were closed and well above the waterline.

But that wasn’t the case on the other side.

No ship could return to its original position after such an impact, and what Saunders feared most, and had warned Townshend about, happened when Townshend imposed this unreasonable plan.

When the English ships righted themselves, they first began to lean to port, where the gunports had remained wide open. Water began flooding in through each of them, and when these ships were finally stabilized, the waterline was too high to keep the gunports open, at least on the first battery.

The gunners saw this and began shouting orders while trying to close the gunports. But the seawater was entering with such force that in many cases, it was simply impossible.

All the British warships started sinking at a furious pace, and nothing and no one could do anything to prevent the tragedy.

"No!"

Before Saunders' horrified eyes, five ships sank with all their crews! The Neptune, his ship, had spun on itself at the moment of impact and was sinking from the bow.

As time passed, it leaned further to port, causing everything that wasn't fastened inside the ship to roll.

The water infiltrated everywhere, quickly filling the hold and the lower battery. The weight of the water and the cannons was added together, making it impossible to save the ship. Pumping now would be futile as the water was entering so fast.

The ship was leaning more and more to its left side.

"All to the boats! Abandon ship!" shouted the commander late, as seawater was already reaching the upper deck.

"Abandon ship!"

Finally, the proud ship capsized completely before stabilizing with a great cry of agony on a sandbank. This was not the case for all the ships, which disappeared entirely or left only fragments of masts behind.

Charles Saunders, drenched, as they hadn't had time to prepare the boats, was helped by a rather young gunner. With his strong arms, he managed to pull him up beside him, on the side of the ship still above the water, while dozens of men tried to escape from the ship's innards.

It was a magnificent three-decked ship, and it had only served a few years. Its loss was devastating for the Crown.

It took hundreds of crew members to operate it. How many had lost their lives in the lower decks?

As time passed, fewer and fewer men made it back to the surface and called for help. This ship had become a cemetery. Saunders sat near the stern castle, frozen and soaked to the bone, his legs curled against his chest.

"M-Mister? Mister? Are you a-all right?" stammered the boy. "L-look, they're s-sending boats to rescue us."

The officer watched the French ships indeed launch boats, but he didn't respond. He remained silent for a long minute, struggling to comprehend what had just happened.

"Boston will fall..." murmured the Vice Admiral, looking dazed.

"What? How? What are you saying?"

"Boston... It will be bombarded until there is not a single house left standing. Townshend will arrive too late, if he ever returns."

"Mister..."

"The orders may have been Townshend's, but everywhere they'll say this disaster was my fault. All these lives lost, gone, in what? Five minutes? Ten minutes?"

"You... You forget that the batteries were greatly reinforced with cannons from our ships! The city can still defend itself!"

The Vice Admiral turned his head frantically and looked at the boy sitting next to him, as frozen as he was, but dressed almost like a beggar. He couldn't help but smile upon hearing him, but his smile was incredibly sad.

"I admire your optimism. What is your name, my boy?"

"Williams, sir. Samuel Williams."

"Never lose that optimism, young Williams. In the darkest moments, it will keep you safe until better times come."

The two men remained silent until the French came to fetch them. They began by rescuing those who were still in the water, which was terribly cold at this time of year.

The British sailors were shackled and forced to wait in silence for their situation to change. The officers were naturally separated, as it was not proper to treat an officer the same as an ordinary sailor.

They were sent to an ordinary cargo ship and placed under surveillance like criminals. If they had expected to be treated like princes, they were all very disappointed. However, they were given dry clothes and a blanket each.

At least they had the opportunity to see what was happening around them. This was not the case for the ordinary sailors, locked in the bowels of the French ships. The only light source here were a few candles placed in strategic locations, under glass for safety.

For hours, nothing happened. After a time of overwhelming silence, the sound of cannons grew louder. Exhausted sailors could only imagine what was happening outside.

It was a terrible ordeal for the captives. Not being able to see, but hearing, being forced to wait and imagine. Some pressed their ear to the hull in the hope of learning a little more about what was happening outside.

If one concentrated enough, it was possible to hear the sound of waves against the hull and the vibrations caused by each shot. They were stronger at times, suggesting an impact had been received.

***

Before reaching Boston, the French ships had to pass in front of a square fort with four bastions located on a small island. Although of a classic shape and not very impressive, it played its role by subjecting the fleet of Monsieur de Roquefeuil to heavy fire.

Its cannons fired relentlessly, forcing the soldiers stationed there to run and sweat like oxen.

Unfortunately for the small garrison, this was not enough against the dozens of cannons mounted on those formidable ships. As they passed, they unleashed devastating broadsides against its thick walls.

For the unfortunate soldiers who had the mission of guarding the harbor entrance, it was like facing a fort firing continuously.

Its stone walls, turned black as coal over time, cracked in places due to storms, and suffered heavy damage. Large blocks of stone were dislodged with each impact, rolling against the walls and eventually falling either into thorn bushes or into the sea.

One by one, the French ships unleashed broadsides on this fort while advancing toward the city.

When they had passed it, Roquefeuil's fleet continued in a line formation past Boston's harbor. They avoided obstacles, whether rocks or sandbars, and continued their course as though they were heading to the far end of the bay.

The people of Boston could not help but notice them. Their identity was undeniable, as each ship proudly flew the flag of the King of France. The fleur-de-lis were clearly visible from the land.

On the docks, people watched these vessels furl their sails and drop anchor. The people of Boston began to panic early, and chaos spread like wildfire inside the city.

The smarter ones immediately tried to leave, or rather, flee the city. The French were surrounding it.

Because Boston sat on a near-island, connected to the mainland by a narrow strip of land guarded by three strong walls, two to the north of this corridor and one at the entrance, they indeed had the means.

If they waited too long, it would soon be too late, as it was already too late to leave Boston by sea.

The role of these fortified lines was to prevent an invasion by land, but the presence of bastions also allowed them to partially cover the sea.

These bastions were the first to be targeted by the French.

The few redcoats that were there—there were not many left since Townshend had taken almost the entire garrison and all the recruits with him—could only take shelter and pray not to be killed as brutally.

They tried to retaliate, but they were neither numerous enough nor properly trained.

The Saint-Michel fired a perfect broadside that smashed one of these batteries with its different caliber balls, destroying several of their cannons and killing six men in the process.

This horrific sight did not escape the residents who had gathered there in the hope of leaving, but who had been turned away by the redcoats. They had no choice but to give up trying to take this route.

In other words, the people of Boston were trapped like rats.

The bombardment continued late into the night. By morning, only piles of smoking rubble remained of the fortifications.