While tears of blood were being shed aboard the British ships, on the French vessels there were cries of joy as they watched those mighty and proud warships shatter on the rocks like mere toys. The Breton sailors were the most inventive when it came to mocking and insulting, often in their strange language, those Englishmen who didn’t know these waters as well as they did but had nevertheless dared to follow them.
Onboard the Juste, Captain François de Saint-Allouarn remained calm, though his heart was brimming with joy at the sight of his enemies' suffering.
Using signal flags, he communicated with the Foudroyant, where squadron leader Michel-Ange Duquesne de Menneville was stationed. He quickly received the response he had hoped for.
"To all ships of the line and frigates, set course to the north. Form a line ahead."
The Marshal-Duke of Richelieu turned to the captain of the Juste, looking at him in confusion.
"A line ahead, captain? You wish to engage them in combat?"
"Indeed, my lord," he replied simply, while keeping a close eye on everything happening around him.
"Our mission is not to engage them, Captain. We must make for the New World as quickly as possible."
"Marshal, replied Rosmadec de Saint-Allouarn, speaking for his brother, the ships in this squadron do not all have the same speed. You got a glimpse of that in the Channel, I believe. If we attempt to flee, gaps will inevitably form between our ships, and one by one, they will be attacked by the faster English vessels. It's better to stay together to increase our chances of victory."
The marshal said nothing, but he had to admit that the decision was logical.
"I will add," François continued, glancing at the movements of the British fleet, "who has dominated the seas in recent decades? The English, let’s not kid ourselves."
Hmm, unfortunately, that's true. No one would dare say it to our king's face, but it's undeniable. They have more ships than us, their sailors are better, as are their ships and gunners.
"My lord, do you know why this is?"
"Because they’ve invested more in their navy than we have, even when their economy was struggling," the old man answered without hesitation.
"That’s true, but it’s not the whole story. What strategy do they use? They attack to destroy, while we only defend and flee when we lose confidence! That’s why we’re behind. For once, we’re going to reverse the roles and take the weather gauge. If you’re still not convinced, understand that we’re not in a situation like Minorca, where the goal was to protect a position. So today, we attack!"
Although he held the title of Marshal of France, the highest military honor one could receive, the Duke of Richelieu knew when to yield.
"Is there anything I can do?" he finally asked after a brief sigh.
"You, no, but your soldiers will be very useful. If we board, I’ll count on them to slaughter the men on the other side!"
The old marshal nodded and returned to the railing to observe the enemy's movements.
They were following the same course, but separated by a maze of shoals and reefs.
After passing the island of Bannec, the Foudroyant, the Juste, the Océan, and the other ships in the squadron took position, following the ship of Monsieur de Saint-Allouarn. That he should lead the way was not surprising, as he knew these waters better than Monsieur Duquesne.
The squadron then headed southwest, turning its back to the enemy, forming a line ahead. It was the only strategy deemed valid for a naval battle, as adopting this formation allowed each ship to expose its broadside, and thus its cannons, to the enemy. After a few exchanges of fire, it wouldn’t take long to determine who would be victorious and who would be defeated.
Quickly, the French ships positioned themselves to catch the wind first, thereby assuming an offensive stance. This was a position typically occupied by the British, who were known for their aggressiveness at sea.
This decision greatly unsettled the British officers, who found themselves in an unusual position.
The French had reduced their sails, a sign that they did not intend to flee the battle or concede any ground to their opponent.
In a long line of ships of the line, the English passed through the Fromveur Passage, and those who hadn’t done so already opened their gunports on the port side. The French did the same on the starboard side.
***
Adam stood with his comrades, surrounding an impressive iron cannon, though it wasn't the largest on the ship. They were like the Three Wise Men around the infant Jesus.
GULP.
The young lieutenant swallowed hard as he observed the sea through the gunport where the cannon's muzzle protruded. Since all the gunports were open, the deck had suddenly become very bright, despite the heavily overcast sky.
The deck was eerily silent, so much so that one could hear a pin drop. Adam’s heart pounded furiously in his chest, like a war drum. His hands had become clammy, and his shirt was soaked with sweat.
Beside him, the marshal's soldiers and the gunners of L’Océan were sweating profusely, waiting for the order to ignite the black powder.
Please… God, if you can hear me, don't let me die today!
Finally, when the two lines of ships were in position side by side, the complete silence gave way to hell. Adam shut his eyes and held his breath as the ship began to tremble violently.
One by one, the artillery pieces unleashed their fire and iron upon their adversaries. The heavy iron cannonballs crossed the distance between the two lines in the blink of an eye and crashed into the solid wooden hulls.
Splinters, both large and small, flew in every direction, falling into the choppy sea. Some cannonballs caused no damage, simply bouncing off the enemy hull, but others managed to penetrate the thick wood.
The French tended to aim for the rigging more often than the English, whose strategy focused on the hull, as the French believed that an immobilized enemy was a defeated enemy. For the English, however, a defeated enemy was one that sank.
But on this grim day, the roles were reversed, and the French were shooting to sink.
All around Adam, the thick scent of burnt powder filled the air, so overpowering that it smothered all other smells. It stung the eyes and irritated the throat, yet everyone managed to ignore it.
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
All they had to do now was perform their duties to make it out of this in one piece.
No sooner had the gunners fired than the crew began preparing the cannon for the next shot. Each man had his role, and thanks to the intense drills of the past few days, the men of the Picardy regiment knew exactly what to do and how to do it.
While the cannon was being cleaned—heated from the blast—one man brought a new projectile, while another fetched another powder charge.
Indeed, it was unthinkable to leave powder so close to the fighting, as that would be far too dangerous! The man responsible for it had to rush to join the line of men bridging the gap between the ship’s powder magazine, where the precious black powder was stored, and the gun deck.
From hand to hand, small powder bags traveled up from the ship’s lowest level.
Despite the lack of sailors aboard L’Océan, thanks to the presence of a large number of soldiers, they had been able to establish this system, which saved precious time for everyone.
Quickly, each cannon was resupplied with powder.
Because they had only received brief training, the gunners didn’t expect much from these infantry soldiers. Their main task was to help haul the thick ropes used to reposition the cannon after it had been loaded. It was heavy, physical work.
As a lieutenant, Adam was responsible for about twenty men—half of Gilbert’s company. They were spread across five cannons, including the one he was stationed at. Of the eight men required to operate each piece, half were regular soldiers who had been hastily trained.
"Come on, men! Get moving! For every ship L’Océan sinks, I will personally give each of you a pound!"
This announcement surprised everyone, as it wasn’t a small sum, and there were many men on this deck. However, the gesture was greatly appreciated by the soldiers and gunners alike, and naturally, they took on the challenge with enthusiasm.
"You heard him?! Move it and reload these damn cannons! Let’s go!"
Two minutes later, the cannon was loaded again, to the surprise of the chief gunners, the master gunner, and the officers. Everyone had assumed that the presence of these soldiers would hinder and significantly slow down the firing rate.
But that was not the case, and L’Océan was ready to fire before its enemy. The wind from the east meant that L’Océan was slightly tilted to the right, favoring shots aimed at the enemy’s hull. Moreover, the previous broadsides had created a thick curtain of smoke in front of the enemy, forcing them to shoot blindly.
The English gunners had to rely on the guidance of their officers, who were also engulfed in this massive cloud filled with powder residue.
The young infantry lieutenant encouraged his men, moving from cannon to cannon to ensure everything was running smoothly, though the vast majority of the soldiers on his deck did not fall under his or his captain’s command. The captain himself, positioned a little further away, let him continue.
If he had had doubts about this boy’s abilities when Colonel de Bréhant had entrusted him, those doubts had long since faded. He was serious, though he still had much to learn, and he never spared himself when it came to training.
He was liked by the men and had managed to earn their obedience despite his young age and the way he had obtained his rank.
The captain had also been surprised by the lieutenant's generous offer, knowing how tight money was in this army. To relieve the young officer of the financial burden, the captain quickly decided to support him by offering a generous bonus to the gunners if they managed to sink an enemy ship or take down a mast.
BOOM!
A loud noise echoed from near where the captain stood. A cannonball had struck L’Océan’s hull at that spot, fortunately without causing too much damage. He could count himself lucky—had there been flying splinters, they would have turned into deadly shrapnel!
While Adam was busy encouraging the gunners at the second-to-last cannon, a loud cheer erupted across the ship.
The ship they were facing, riddled with holes, several of them below the waterline, had just lost its foremast. It had fallen to the port side, causing significant disruption in the enemy’s formation.
Indeed, with a mast down, the ship was now considerably slowed, and it was hindering the ships following it. Moreover, the vessel was now listing to the left, placing many of its breaches below the waterline! There were likely multiple leaks aboard!
All the ships trailing behind it, the sixth in the long line, had to make emergency maneuvers to avoid collision.
The French took advantage of the situation to execute an unexpected move, applying an idea from the Comte de Roquefeuille and Bousquet, who, by chance, happened to be in France at the time of the expedition.
Lucky indeed, as the man had just returned from Louisbourg aboard his ship, the Hector, a second-rate ship with seventy-four guns.
Exploiting the breach in the enemy’s line, the Comte de Roquefeuille accelerated his ship, making sure to signal his intentions to those following him.
With the Hector in the lead, they cut the enemy line in two, racing to catch the ships now isolated at the front.
It was highly unusual and very risky to break one’s line of battle. This strategy had become a staple recognized by all maritime powers. What Roquefeuille sought to do now was to implement a risky plan to surpass it.
Soon, the Hector approached the last English ship, which suddenly found itself with an enemy on both sides.
For this ship, it was a disaster! The officers on board, like those on the ships ahead, hurried to give the order to load the cannons on the starboard side. Unfortunately for this last ship in the line, it was too late. Not all the gunners had time to follow the order or even open the gunports.
The Hector opened fire and continued on its course to attack the next ship. The French ship that followed, with all sails set, unleashed its cannons as well, and so on. The unfortunate British ship quickly began showing signs of distress.
The longer time passed, the more it sank into the cold waters of the Atlantic.
Admiral Hawke watched the disaster unfold, unable to intervene. Even at full speed, he couldn’t keep up.
The HMS Royal George was like a tortoise—resilient but painfully slow. Its one hundred cannons were useless at that moment, as there was no enemy within range. All Hawke could do was give the order to accelerate, hoping to catch up with the French ships and retaliate.
Far ahead, the situation was dire. The Hector, along with the Foudroyant, was overwhelming the English ship HMS The Princess Caroline. The exchange of fire was intense, leaving no respite for the men on board. Everyone was busy with something.
The HMS The Princess Caroline resembled a floating wreck, sailing through a sea of debris. Then, a fire broke out on board, quickly spreading to the sails.
The crew was overwhelmed, torn between fighting the flames, bailing out the water that was gradually filling the ship, and continuing the battle. In the end, nothing could stop the fire from reaching the lower decks.
Finally, a massive explosion shook the sky as a ball of fire and smoke formed a mushroom-like cloud between the ship’s masts. The fire had reached the powder magazine.
This great ship, dating back to 1697, met its end at the venerable age of sixty, sinking rapidly into the Breton waters, split in two by the force of the explosion.
Both English and French crews were shocked by the blast and the terrifying sound. Part of Hawke’s squadron then began retreating from the battle.
***
When the admiral finally arrived, the battle already seemed lost, and he hadn’t fired a single shot. His forces were dwindling before his eyes, with some ships fleeing and others being destroyed with an unusual ferocity by the French.
Quickly analyzing the situation, he came to a swift conclusion.
"Our ships are retreating from the battlefield, sir!"
"We can’t do anything more, I’m afraid. To persist now would only increase our losses. We cannot risk the HMS Royal George in a battle that’s already lost."
It was a wise but difficult decision. He feared the anger of both his king and his peers, as a high-ranking officer had been condemned a few years earlier for not doing everything possible to prevent the fall of Minorca.
The Admiralty will understand.
Edward Hawke pressed his lips in frustration and glared at the French ships, which seemed to relish inflicting harm upon them. If a glare had the same power as a cannonball, all those ships would be in flames.
But that wasn’t the case. He simply let out a long sigh, filled with sadness and frustration. He could already imagine returning to England in shame and facing the consequences.
"Turn the ship around. Let’s get out of here..."
"Sir?"
"That’s an order! I’ll take full responsibility!"
"A-at your command, sir!"
The Battle of Ouessant ended after three and a half hours of fighting, around six in the evening, and it was a resounding French victory. Several ships had surrendered, and a few had sunk. One had been sunk by the fire of the Océan, which also managed to dismast another.
In a way, the surrender of HMS Monarch could also be attributed to them, as one of their lucky shots had destroyed its rudder, leaving it as helpless as an infant. It was a valuable prize, being a seventy-four-gun ship.
The most remarkable thing was that it had originally been a French ship, captured during the last war in 1747 by Edward Hawke. It would now regain its original name, Le Monarque.
"Victory!"
"We got them!"
"Vive le Roi!"