Brest

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Even though Prussia had been defeated—an outcome almost certain since Frederick II's capture in November 1757—there was never any question of ending the war with Great Britain. Its armies and navy remained intact.

This war, rather than being fought on the Old Continent, was raging across almost all the seas of the globe, in the New World, in African trading posts, and in India. Although fierce, these battles could not compare to those fought in Europe. The means were too limited.

The number of soldiers stationed overseas was smaller, and it was very difficult for European states to send fresh troops to another continent.

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Exactly one week before the terrible battle of Häuslingen, a pivotal event occurred, completely shifting the precarious balance in this conflict. On February 28, 1758, Spain declared war on Great Britain.

That day, Spain delivered a powerful blow, striking its enemy before it even knew of the change.

Admiral Henry Osborn never saw it coming.

All he saw at the time were three poor French warships trying to reinforce a fleet he had managed to trap in the port of Cartagena. They seemed so weak, so fragile, that it would have been criminal to ignore them. So, with a fifth of his line ships—three of the fifteen he commanded—he set off after his prey, unaware that he was the target of eighteen heavily armed Spanish ships!

By the time he realized the situation, it was too late.

The battle was epic and exceptionally violent. After taking out the ships pursuing the French vessels, the Spanish attacked the nine remaining British ships stationed off Cartagena. The toll was devastating, although insignificant for the all-powerful Royal Navy.

Six of its ships were sunk, five were severely damaged, and three surrendered once it became clear the battle was lost. Only one ship managed to escape. Unfortunately for the British admiral, it was not his. Henry Osborn was killed during the battle by a wooden splinter to the throat.

Though the losses suffered by His Majesty's glorious navy were negligible when viewed against the vast number of ships at its disposal, the humiliation could not be ignored.

All of London heard rumors that when the elderly King George II officially learned of Spain's entry into the war, he flew into such a rage that he shattered one of his study windows by hurling a large inkwell through it.

The French ships that had been trapped in Cartagena were finally able to break free and joined the three ships that had come to their aid, led by Michel-Ange Duquesne de Menneville.

He was a seasoned and highly experienced man, a sailor to the core, just like his father and uncle.

It was under his command that the French squadron, composed of four line ships and four captured English vessels—two of which were in poor condition—left the Mediterranean.

Duquesne de Menneville's mission was to sail to New France to support Louisbourg, which was under grave threat from the British army. Normally, this task would have fallen to squadron leader Jean-François de Bertet de Sabran, Marquis de La Clue, commonly known as La Clue-Sabran, who was even more experienced than Duquesne. However, recent events had led to this change.

Thus, La Clue-Sabran returned to Toulon while Duquesne de Menneville crossed the Strait of Gibraltar. This British-controlled location became a prime target the moment Spain entered the war, allowing the French ships to pass unscathed.

His orders from Versailles remained unchanged. He was to sail to the New World, but first, he was to stop at the port and arsenal of Brest. Like Gibraltar, this location was of immense strategic importance to the kingdom. Its large, sheltered harbor could accommodate a considerable fleet, capable of setting sail for the New World, attacking the English coast to the north, or heading to the Mediterranean, the African coast, or India by sailing south.

According to his mission orders, Michel-Ange Duquesne was to meet with other ships at Brest and wait for an army to arrive. Together, they were to ensure a safe crossing to the other side of the vast and dangerous Atlantic Ocean.

This task was a monumental challenge for the officers in charge of logistics, as it involved weeks at sea. But that was not Duquesne de Menneville's concern. All he had to do was follow orders.

His experience extended beyond merely commanding ships, most of them in the Mediterranean to prevent the British from controlling this vital sea for European trade. Indeed, he had also served, albeit for only three years, as the governor of New France. Perhaps that was the reason for the final decision to send him instead of La Clue-Sabran.

Thanks to this valuable experience, he understood how critical the port city of Louisbourg was. The British knew as much as the French that depriving France of this fortified town would isolate all territories along the mighty Saint Lawrence River, cutting off the entire northern region of New France.

Even though this vast territory was connected to Louisiana, another immense region stretching roughly from the Caribbean to the Great Lakes, completely blocking the westward expansion of the thirteen British colonies, it remained largely undeveloped.

It would not be an exaggeration to say that everything there was yet to be built, including roads.

Without Louisbourg, Quebec and its surroundings were doomed. It was, therefore, no surprise that Britain sought to capture it once again. Once again, because they had succeeded during the last war, only to be forced to return it under the Treaty of Aix-la-Chapelle in 1748.

The old enemy of France had tried to recapture it the previous summer, but by sheer luck rather than the defenders' skill, they had been repelled.

It was certain that they would try again this year to undermine France's ambitions and allow the British Crown to drive the French out of the New World once and for all.

Thus, Duquesne's mission was clear: ensure that Louisbourg did not fall and capture as many English ships as possible.

There was no point in counting on the help of the Holy Roman Empire, Sweden, Russia, or Austria, as their interests were limited to Europe. The defeat of Prussia, not yet confirmed at that time, would mark the end of this war for them. Knowing this, His Majesty Louis XV did everything in his power to draw Spain into the war. France needed an ally against the formidable England, respected and feared worldwide.

Spain, although ruled by the Bourbons, the illustrious family to which the current King of France belonged, had been very reluctant to join this conflict. Belonging to the same house was not a sufficient reason, otherwise the Spanish Crown would never have waged war against France from 1718 to 1720, shortly after the War of the Spanish Succession. Yet it was through that very war that the Bourbons had ascended to the throne of this powerful kingdom, rightly called an empire!

The main reason that pushed Spain to side with France was that the British held several territories that His Most Catholic Majesty coveted, some of which were within his vast empire in the New World. From his point of view, this was absolutely intolerable. Indeed, in addition to owning a large number of islands in the Caribbean, Great Britain also held Belize, to the south of the Yucatán, and the Mosquito Coast, further south. More importantly, Spain desired to seize Gibraltar.

Without the resounding victory of the French against Prussia, perhaps the Spain of Ferdinand VI would never have dared take the plunge. After all, this monarch was known throughout Europe for his reluctance to choose between Britain and France. He had even gone so far as to replace his prime minister in 1754 for being deemed too pro-French!

Unfortunately for Ferdinand VI, his sudden and unexpected decision had consequences. In fact, as Duquesne learned as soon as he arrived in Brest in mid-March, the Kingdom of Portugal had announced that it would side with Great Britain and join them against France and Spain. Alas for the Spanish monarch, it was too late to turn back. The four colonial empires present in the New World were now at war with each other in two terrifying blocs.

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Michel-Ange Duquesne, aboard the Foudroyant, a majestic 80-gun ship of the line, nervously tapped his finger on the thick railing at the rear of his vessel. His gaze, as in previous days, was fixed on the Goulet.

Good heavens! How much longer must I wait? It's been almost two weeks, and still no news of those ships and that army I am to escort! Has the plan changed?

His ship had not moved an inch since he dropped anchor on March 15 in front of Brest Castle. Near his ship were a few others, as immobile as rocks in the vast Brest harbor, the famous natural refuge said to be large enough to shelter the entire fleet of His Majesty.

It was indeed a marvelous place to anchor his ship. Like a miniature Mediterranean Sea, it was accessible only through what was called "the Goulet," a narrow passage that could not be avoided if one wished to enter Brest by sea. It was therefore the local equivalent of the Strait of Gibraltar, albeit much smaller, of course.

On each side of this narrow corridor were batteries equipped with many heavy cannons and mortars, all ready to fire on any enemy ships attempting to force their way through. They were well-designed, fully operational, and perfectly positioned so that any attacker would think twice before trying to assault this port city, which boasted one of France's largest arsenals.

They're treating me as if I'm a threat! What an outrage!

Indeed, Count Duguay, commander of the navy at Brest, was very cautious about allowing so many men to roam the city unsupervised, which is why he had ordered Duquesne de Menneville to remain on board his ship with his crews. As he explained to him, they had arrived at the worst possible time: a terrible epidemic was raging in the city.

A fleet full of sick people from Louisbourg, after repelling the English attack the previous year, had arrived in Brest a few months earlier. It hadn't taken long for the disease to spread to the population, soon becoming uncontrollable. Brest had two hospitals, but the number of caregivers and available beds quickly proved insufficient to deal with the scourge, which seemed like a divine punishment. The people of Brest were dying in large numbers, preventing the city and the arsenal from functioning properly.

All Duquesne could do now was wait for these ships to depart. Unfortunately, Count Duguay had been forced to accept them in his harbor because, as Monsieur de Moras, the new Secretary of the Navy after the disgrace of Monsieur de Machault d'Arnouville, had informed him by letter, more would arrive, carrying many soldiers bound for New France.

He had no choice but to wait for these soldiers to arrive so the ships could set sail from his port and harbor.

"Captain! They've arrived!"

Finally! It's about time! To think it's already March 30! We've been delayed considerably, I hope it's not too late!

His greatest fear was to arrive in front of Louisbourg and discover a foreign flag flying over the city.

If, by some misfortune, we arrive too late...

Armed with his spyglass, he observed from his post the ships entering the harbor. There were eight warships, which wasn't bad. They were escorting a fairly large number of merchant and troop transport ships. As if to welcome them, a cannon roared in the distance.

Slowly, the last ship in the long line crossed the Goulet and took its place with the others, within a cable's length of the castle guarding the entrance to the Penfeld River.

Behind this castle, which had nothing in common with what the Romans had once built or what the Breton lords had erected centuries later, the city seemed quite small.

Initially tired of waiting with nothing to do, Michel-Ange Duquesne looked on with horror at the state of these ships.

"Good Lord! Have they been through hell?!"

The old sailor had every reason to doubt. The hulls of these ships appeared damaged, as did the rigging.

Apparently, their journey wasn't smooth. My God, it looks like they've been attacked by a sea monster!

Planks covered holes left on the sides of the vessels, and one ship was even missing a mast.

Rear Admiral Duquesne de Menneville boarded a small boat and headed for the Juste, a second-rate ship of the line with over thirty years of service in His Majesty's navy.

"Mr. Duquesne, I presume?" said a man of the same generation, extending a sailor's hand, worn from salt. "I am the captain of the Juste, François de Saint-Allouarn, and this is my first mate, my brother, Rosmadec de Saint-Allouarn. And here is the commander of the men I bring to you.

"I am the Marshal-Duke of Vignerot du Plessis de Richelieu, pleased to meet you, sir. I place my army at your disposal," said the older man, about ten years senior to the other three.

"Ah, pleased to meet you, gentlemen. I am the commander of the Foudroyant, Michel-Ange Duquesne de Menneville. According to my instructions, I am to form a squadron with your ships and head to New France to support our colonies."

"Indeed, that matches our orders. My apologies for the delay, sir," said the Marshal-Duke, bowing slightly. "I received His Majesty's orders rather late, just as I was about to face a Prussian army."

"Prussian? So you were coming from Prussia with these... ships?" Duquesne choked, both surprised and impressed.

I was about to say 'wrecks,' for that's what they are. How did they even make it here? It's a miracle, considering the number of English ships patrolling the Channel!

"Thanks to the Saint-Allouarn brothers," said the Marshal of Richelieu, "we arrived swiftly. Unfortunately, we encountered two small English fleets. While we managed to avoid a fight the first time thanks to a thick fog, we weren't so lucky the second time. One of our ships sank, and we had no choice but to continue our route to avoid being completely destroyed in the Channel."

"Good Lord! I hope your men were rescued in time, for the water is freezing this season! That explains the state of your ships. I fear it may be a serious delay if we are to complete the mission entrusted to us by His Majesty."

The old marshal, looking deeply concerned, ran his long, thin fingers over his chin, where a graying beard was beginning to show.

"How long will the repairs take?"

"I'm not sure," sighed the squadron leader, feeling a headache coming on. "The port and workshops are running at half capacity due to an epidemic."

"An epidemic? That's unfortunate," the old soldier grumbled, crossing his arms over his chest.

"I fear," Duquesne continued, "that even if we mobilize all available workers and the convicts in town, we will only be able to repair one or two ships before we leave. Fortunately, we captured some English ships in Spain, and a few of them are in good condition. The ones that weren't are already being repaired."

"Excellent! In that case, we'll use them!" exclaimed the younger Saint-Allouarn enthusiastically.

"But do we have enough sailors to man them properly?" asked the Duke, still very concerned.

"Heh, you forget, Mr. Richelieu, that we are in Brittany," replied Captain François de Saint-Allouarn proudly. "Here, we have the best sailors in the world! A Breton is worth two, maybe three ordinary sailors!"

The Duke of Richelieu and the squadron leader Duquesne exchanged glances as they watched the two Bretons puff out their chests with pride.

The Bretons… they both thought at the same time, with a resigned sigh.

***

At that same moment, just outside Brest, on the other side of the Penfeld River, in Recouvrance, a middle-aged man, plump, with a ruddy complexion and deep bags under his eyes, entered a modest-looking house.

There was nothing distinguishing about the house. Its walls were cracked, the windows dirty, and the slate roof dotted with patches of green, spongy moss.

He slammed the wooden door shut behind him, carelessly placed his worn tricorne, nearly as old as he was, on a small wooden table, and hung his heavy coat on the back of his chair—the one he used for eating.

As soon as he got home, the stout man headed to his bedroom and lit a candle on a simple desk near the small square window of the room. It was already dark at this hour, though the days were getting longer. From a poorly fitted drawer, he pulled out some paper and the special ink given to him a few years ago. It was already prepared and could be used immediately.

He grabbed a tired-looking quill that had been waiting for nearly two weeks and dipped the tip into the liquid, very different from ordinary inks.

He began tracing letters barely visible by the small flame.

As it dried, it became completely invisible. To reveal the letters and words, one had to hold the letter close to a heat source. A few seconds were enough to make the message appear as if by magic.

His employer had communicated the recipe to him, through an intermediary, of course. The message was short and consisted of two parts. The first concerned the arrival of several ships in the port of Brest, which he described as best he could, roughly estimating the number of men aboard. He knew what his employers wanted since he had been selling information to the English for three years now.

Risky and far from honorable, he had taken up this secret work more for the money than out of sympathy for these foreigners or a taste for adventure. The second part concerned the money. It had been a while since he had received a pound. He had already requested it two weeks earlier when he reported the arrival of the French squadron in the port, but he had received no response.

As he continued to do what was expected of him, the money was slow in coming. And he really needed it.

When he finished, he turned over the letter and wrote a mundane message in black ink to a supposed cousin in Rennes. In reality, it was one of his accomplices, who would in turn send a similar letter to another contact in Paris, who would then send one to someone in the United Provinces before it eventually reached England.

This was how things worked with him, and there was no doubt that it was the same in all the major ports of France."