Voices, was that voices in the wind? Not one but many. The weather had turned and thunder followed a blinding flash in Bantry Bay, Ireland. Twelve year old Fial McMurrin sheltered his eyes with his hands over his brow helping his father gather cattle at first light. He could hardly hear his father’s instructions shouted in a rich, Irish accent and carried by the harsh wind, but he could hear voices, screams, far more frighting than the lash of his father's cries.
He crested a grassy slope and the sea came into view; he stood mesmerised at the spectacle. His father again shouted at the top of his voice but Fial did not respond, "Fial son can you not hear me!?" His father became angry, frustrated at the lack of attention from his son with such little time. The wind cried with tears as it swept over the crest of the hill and sleet began to fall, running parallel to the ground and carried along by the relentless storm. His father crested the rise and was about to put his heavy hand on Fial's shoulder when he too got view of the bay; he lowered his hand to his side and beheld the spectacle.
They could hear the yelling of sailors; it was the 25th of December 1796 and the French Expédition d'Irlande was in disarray, pounded by giant waves and howling winds. They watched helpless as the French warship Indomitable, dragging anchor, collided with the frigate Resolue. They could just make out the French flag atop the mast of the flagship Immortalité; Captain Bouvet's orders carried in the wind as she was blown out to sea no more than a mile in front of them.
Their cattle took shelter beneath some trees in a cove to their right where the green grassy slopes met a tidal creek. A longboat from the failing ships had overturned in the heavy surf as it attempted to make land, and one man had made it to the rocky beach. Fial and his father fought the storm, making their way down to the cliff face, sliding down the final rocky ledge to assist the lone soul.
The sailor did not speak English; he was exhausted, pale, and shivering in the cold, unrelenting wind and sleet. His face was thin and gaunt and his hair dark, straggly and matted with seaweed; his red and white clothes clung to him sopping wet. He carried a bag over his shoulder made of leather that was cumbersome and quite heavy. Fial and his father supported him between them and they set off for their farmhouse a mile inland. The Frenchman stumbled occasionally and Fial's father took off his long, black coat, draping it around the Frenchman's shoulders; he shook violently at times with the cold. When they made the farmhouse the Frenchman was nearly unconscious and they laid him in front of the open fire and warmed some potato soup; he fell asleep.
Fial’s father Ryan was a member of the outlawed Society of United Irishmen and he left the farmhouse to inform his colleagues in nearby Summerhill of his find and to locate someone who understood French.
Fial's mother tended to the Frenchman while Fial, an inquisitive boy who loved the sea, inspected the contents of the Frenchman's bag, the leather wore an embossed ensign of the Royal Navy. There were a number of maps, charts and books wet with seawater. He laid them out flat to dry on the stone floor near the fire’s edge. At the bottom of the bag there was a wooden case around twelve inches square and six inches deep bearing the insignia of the Royal Navy; he carefully opened the case, unlatching the clip. His face lit up when he observed a sextant; Fial had seen pictures of such a thing in school and knew it was used on ships for celestial navigation; to have his hands on one was most exciting. He handled the parts but couldn't work out how to put it together and laid them back in their box recess when his mother chastised him for playing with it. He ran his fingers over the red silk fabric that covered the padding inside the box, the finest silk; he thought it felt like a babies skin. At twelve it was the best toy he had ever seen.
The Frenchman woke after an hour or so and smiled at Fial for the first time. He could muster the words thank you well enough for Fial to understand. Fial pointed to one of the books and the Frenchman responded, "Almanach nautique," but Fial didn't understand, fumbling through the pages for pictures.
Ryan returned just after midday with a friend who spoke fluent French. They learned of a journey thwarted by failure. The rescued Frenchman was first mate Louis Belgarde from the Scevola; he had been washed overboard in the storm in the dark of morning.
The fleet had sailed from Brest in France for the Expédition d'Irlande on the 15th December direct to Bantry Bay: some 17 ships, 13 frigates and 14 other vessels; they carried nearly twenty thousand soldiers, mariners and sailors. The fleet had not mustered well at Brest and made voyage in groups, the biggest being that following the flagship Immortalité under Captain Bouvet that upon leaving the coast of Brest numbered some thirty-three.
They anchored in Bantry Bay on the twenty-first of December and were surprised to find local pilots mistaking the fleet to be British, rowing out to assist them. The British pilots were captured but kept alive and they gave information on the best places to make a landing. It was the pilot's longboat tethered to the stern of the Scevola that Louis was able to use when he was washed overboard in the later storm. In the longboat he found the bag he was carrying abandoned by the pilots when they were captured.
He explained the fleet was not at full strength but senior officers Bouvet and army counterpart General Emmanuel de Grouchy had a meeting and resolved on a plan to continue with the landing. They were poorly equipped for the sudden bad weather, the worst since 1708, the French soldiers and seaman being dressed for a milder climate struggled in the cold. Then on the night preceding the planned morning landing the weather worsened to a major storm and he was washed overboard. By first light the landing was in complete confusion with ships breaking up and dragging anchor, many being blown out to sea. Louis was washed over the stern at first light and landed near the longboat; he was a strong swimmer and pulled himself into the longboat. The Scevola had weighed anchor and his tow line was cast off so he was carried towards the shore of Bantry Bay. The boat overturned in heavy surf and Louis swam the short distance to the rocky beach, being rescued by Fial and his father.
The British response had not been good but Ryan McMurrin knew this would not last. Fial had listened to what had transpired but did not really understand some of it. Plans were made through the Society of United Irishmen to have Louis taken to the port of Cork and await passage back to France to assist in other planned incursions collaborated with the Society in the near future.
The very next morning a cart of hay and vegetables arrived pulled by two horses and Louis was hidden in a small wooden recess in the centre of the load. Fial was used atop the load to add a going to market look with Ryan McMurrin driving and his Society friend William Maloney next to him with a concealed musket pistol. The British had begun looking for any survivors of the fleet and justice for those who collaborated was swift. The journey to Cork was forty-nine miles, a full day each way with a change of horses half way at a place called Ballineen with Society contacts. They made Bunkila on the western side of Cork Harbour well into darkness and Louis had been given a set of clothes more akin to that of the locals; he was shuffled inside a farmhouse overlooking the harbour of Cork.
Fial woke early at first light. It was his first time in a major town and being infatuated by the sea and inquisitive, he stood watching the harbour at the water’s edge in front of the farm house. The surrounding fields of green grass and cattle were separated by ditches with sparse hedging of mainly blackberry and something Fial called bread and cheese. To his left he could see the harbour branch into the River Lee and directly in front of him, two miles off, was the island of Haulbowline. Spike Island just to its right really interested him. He could see a British warship anchored on the north eastern edge of Spike Island. He had never been up close to one only because he never had the chance and chance had raised its head.
Fial asked farmer and Society member Donal McGuire if with the permission of his father he could see the warship up close. It was a rare occasion that they were in Cork and his father agreed. Donal put Fial in a rowboat with him and they headed directly east towards Haulbowlin
e Island; they supplied vegetables to the British ships that replenished stocks whilst in port. Donal explained they could access the wharf where the ship was at anchor and deliver some supplies scheduled for later in the day; they would have to be careful as the early arrival would cause suspicion. The Druid was anchored away from the wharfs for extra security and could only be accessed by longboats, greatly decreasing the risk of boarding by enemies.
Fial watched the harbour traffic, holding his hand in the water at the stern of the rowboat sitting atop the wide complement of vegetables. Donal explained traffic was down a lot as the attempt at Bantry Bay by the French had put the British on alert and several people had already been taken into custody and held in the prison on Haulbowline Island, a place from whence you did not return.
They passed between Rocky Island and Cobh Point and Donal explained about the ship as they approached her. It was the HMS Druid, a fifth rate frigate. Donal knew much of the ships as he was previously a seaman with a commercial schooner trading with the Welsh but it was confiscated by the British and used for their own purposes. The Druid was a Hermione class frigate: Hermione class named after the only daughter of Menelaus and Helen from Greek mythology in the time of Troy. She was seven hundred and seventeen tons with a complement of two hundred and twenty crew, one hundred and twenty-nine feet long and thirty-six feet wide. She boasted forty-two mainly carronade cannon on two decks, twenty-six twelve pounders on the upper deck, four six pounders and eight twenty-four pounders on the quarterdeck and two six pounders and two twenty-four pounders on the forecastle. Her captain was Richard King.
A warning was shouted to the rowboat as it approached; Donal explained their identity and presence and was allowed to pull alongside the port rope and climb the rigging. Armed British marines watched from the edge of the ship as the vegetable stock was loaded on board. Fial was in awe as he looked up at the ships tall masts and could smell the black pitch that sealed her hull. The character of the oak planks in her hull bore witness to the craftsmen that had built her; he looked in rapture at a builder of empires. He could see the upper deck cannon poised to strike and touched the ship’s hull as if he wanted to become part of her. Fial had found his destiny.