by Alaric Bond
He turned back to the enemy squadron. Caulfield was right: there were signals flying back and forth, while some of the far column of frigates were increasing sail and altering course. Maybe he had been wrong, maybe the French commander had ordered them off and was going to fight a rearguard action. Or perhaps they were intending to form one single line of battle.
Banks thought not; that was battleship tactics, and all but one of the French ships were frigates. But a line of battle was also easier to stop, especially when there was at least one ship in an ideal position to throw herself in front of the enemy’s van. He glanced across at Foudroyant, still determinedly stubbing the waves and making scant forward progress. She might be able to join in the action later, but was too slow for any dramatic opening moves. Too slow to take the first or second ship, engage them in battle and hang on determinedly like a single dog might to a raging bull. Too slow to bring the bulk of a battleship just where it was needed most. Too slow by half, he told himself bitterly; that job would fall to a frigate. Frigates were faster and far more expendable.
“Signal from the flagship,” the midshipman’s voice cut into his thoughts. “Our number…”
Banks waited while the expected order was received, and the men about him began to take in what he had foreseen some while ago. He supposed it was a reasonable enough solution. After all, were the leading frigates allowed to escape it would hardly be a complete victory. They might even get clean away, and actually land some troops in the manner he had predicted; should that be permitted, the action against the other ships, however victorious, might still be seen as a defeat.
But if he were successful, if he and his ship delayed the enemy long enough to see their total destruction, that must be an end to the matter. The French would have been stopped and there could be no further chance of invasion. Nine French taken for the loss of one: yes he could understand the wisdom in that. It would in fact be a very good result indeed, one sure to win the public’s approval and probably a further honour for Sir John. And even if Scylla, his own precious Scylla, even if she were the ship to be lost, and his people, the officers and men he knew so well, were those about to be killed, even then he could not argue with the plan nor the logic it contained. It was suicide of course, but still made perfect sense.
Chapter Thirteen
Crowley thought he had never been so tired. Despite the easing of the storm, rigging the jury topmast had taken both energy and concentration; now he felt as if the life had been sucked from him. To make matters worse, he wondered if it had been really worth all the effort. The ship might be more easily controlled and the lee shore could certainly be avoided, but as dawn broke it became increasingly clear that the accursed Royal Navy was not to leave them be. From their position on Hoche‘s leeward gangway he and MacArthur could clearly make out the untidy straggle of ships that currently dogged their tail. More were approaching on their larboard quarter, and there was a frigate, a rather ponderous liner and something substantial beyond, off their larboard bow. The French ships still outnumbered them, even allowing for the Résolue that had sprung a leak and fallen behind during the night, but he could see at least two British warships that were every bit as large as the Hoche, and Crowley had no illusions as to the relative merits of each nation’s navy.
From the quarterdeck came a babble of orders, and men began to haul the yards round as the ship changed course.
“We’re turning a point or so to the west,” MacArthur commented.
Crowley nodded. It must take them about as near to the wind as the old girl could manage with her butchered rig, but he doubted if the alteration was worth the making. The nearest land was hardly a danger now, and their speed, such as it was, would be reduced still further. Commodore Bompart was on the quarterdeck, along with Captain Maistral and Wolfe Tone. They seemed to be having some sort of argument: at one point the Irish devil even stomped away for a moment or two and stood with his hands behind his back glaring at the oncoming British. But he returned soon enough, and shortly afterwards there were more orders, and a second batch of signals made to the other ships of the squadron. The French had already formed a somewhat irregular line-of-battle, and Crowley wondered vaguely what miracles the all wise commanders had conjured up to see them clear of this mess.
“The enemy are also busy,” MacArthur pointed towards the two-decker furthest off their larboard bow. She could be seen more clearly now, and was obviously the British flagship. She had maintained an almost continuous stream of signals since first light; this time Crowley thought he actually saw the result. A line of bunting broke out from her foremast, and shortly after the frigate closest to their van began to make further sail, drawing ahead of the liner immediately behind her. They watched in silence as she picked up speed, and memories of the fleet action off Cape St Vincent came back to Crowley. The frigate, either ordered or not, was attempting a similar feat to that Nelson had carried off the previous year. By breaking away from her support, she was effectively taking on the entire invasion fleet, or at least the very head of it. Their action would seriously affect the French: some might try to steer to leeward, but that would simply drive them nearer the two battleships; others might plough on, but confusion and delay was pretty much guaranteed. It would come at a price, of course: even if just a few of the French engaged, the jaunty little ship would be a total loss within minutes.
The sound of heavy cannon came to them, and both looked round to see the British liner off their stern had opened fire.
“And so it begins,” MacArthur said quietly and Crowley could do nothing but agree. They were certainly the first of many guns to be fired that day. However long his journey had been, however far he had travelled, this was the point when matters must finally be addressed. He now knew for certain that there would never be a full scale invasion, and the likelihood of the mighty army even setting foot on Ireland was very small. Equally slight were the chances of the French escaping. In fact a British victory, and capture, seemed the very best any of them could hope for, and even that would not come before many hours of fighting and countless other cannon had been fired.
So what of his guardian angel now? Crowley might have considered himself as one who was in some way charmed, but even in the pell-mell existence he had led, there had been few occasions when the odds had been stacked quite so high against him. Now, and for probably the first time, he was starting to doubt his chances. Doubt he would see the current situation through to a happy end, doubt that he himself would survive long enough to turn the misery that was to come into a happy anecdote, one that could be told to laughing shipmates by the warmth of a late night alehouse fire. His thoughts naturally moved on to his British friends, somewhere miles away and still awaiting their liner, and he felt profoundly sorry.
He would not see them again, of that Crowley was quite certain. If capture was the very best he could expect, he would certainly be missing that particular ship. Of course they might meet again in the maelstrom of a continent at war: stranger things had happened, and he must not blight his luck by wishing it away. But Crowley inwardly knew that this was the end of his good fortune, and the sadness stayed with him. Then the sound of gun fire came to them again. A broadside this time, and as neat a ripple as he had ever heard. The British were clearly well trained and knew precisely what they were about.
“So it begins,” Crowley repeated softly, and to himself, “and so it must end.”
* * *
In the short time that he had been with her Banks knew that Scylla had never sailed quite so sweet. The addition of royals had given her a kick of more than a knot, and even sailing as close to the wind as she would lie there was still a respectable cloud of spray streaming from her bow. The men had been sent to quarters after a cold and dry breakfast, but now their spirits seemed surprisingly high as the ship edged ever closer to the enemy’s van. Banks watched them and felt mildly ashamed; they might wish for battle, for the chance to fire their guns and shoot their muskets, and put al
l of the hard learned lessons of war into action, but they were heading for a very different style of combat from the one they had been weaned upon. Few of those present had ever fought in a fleet action; there were many who had never actually heard a gun fired in anger. But such was the way of the all powerful Royal Navy; and, if the next hour or so butchered the majority and disillusioned the rest, the end result would still be positive.
It would be known as the Battle of Tory Island, Banks supposed; the nearest land mass often being a point of reference for a naval action. History would see it as a British victory, despite the fact that the French had the windward gauge and were numerically dominant in both ships and guns. Some might recall Scylla, the sacrificial lamb that was sent to head off the enemy line, the insignificant stumbling block that caused a herd of charging bulls to trip and so be halted. And of those who did remember, nearly all would consider her action heroic. Some might even raise a glass or say a prayer for those few brave men in one small ship who had done so much for their country’s freedom. But they would be wrong.
Banks supposed that there had been times in his life when he had been mildly brave. Nothing stood out, even if the capacity, he hoped, remained. But heroes should not be ordered to their valour; this was a case where to reach the giddy heights of a Nelson, a Duncan or a Howe all he would have to was simply obey orders. Obey orders and see them through to the end, however dreadful that might be.
And he must remember that it was no harder on him than any other under command. When Nelson directed Captain out of the line to take on the might of a Spanish fleet, he had effectively placed every man aboard in peril of his life, and there had been no room for them to voice their opinions on the matter. Those that returned were treated like victors, those that did not became revered in their deaths, but little choice was given as to if they actually wanted to go.
Banks sighed; it wasn’t so much that he resented his part in the action. Indeed, it could be said that his entire naval career had been directed towards this one particular point. And given the choice he might willingly have chosen to take his precious ship on such an important task. But he could not ignore the faint feeling of resentment that came from having been so directed. Somehow being ordered to be brave was completely different from gallantry achieved through one’s own volition.
“They’ve opened fire!”
Caulfield’s words made him start, so deep in his thoughts had he been, and Banks looked up to see the remains of broadside smoke as it dissipated in the wind. It had been the nearest frigate, and was long range for what would probably be eighteen pounders. How typical of the French to waste the first broadside, the one that had been loaded with care and patience, on an optimistic whim. A stray ball might conceivably have reached Scylla, but it would have been all but spent and little damage could be expected. More foolish still when that same target was about to become so much closer. The shots duly rained down on an empty sea just before the sound of their discharge reached the British. Banks turned to address the quarterdeck in general. “That’ll be one less for us to face later,” he said, and the officers laughed politely.
“Shall I cast the log, sir?” Barrow asked. Banks looked at him, then realised that in truth this must be a favourable pace for a close hauled ship. He reckoned that little harm would be caused by measuring their speed, and it would certainly keep a few of the hands occupied while they closed the range. And if any survived, and the record was retained, it might speak well for the ship.
* * *
Despite his demotion, Surridge was a talented gunner and had been given command of a twenty-four pounder on the forecastle battery. It was a carronade; of all the guns in the ship they threw the heaviest shot, and nearly as far as his old and beloved thirty-two carriage pieces. Carronades also had the advantage of requiring a smaller crew, so Surridge could have greater control over her loading and tending. In a relatively short time, he had become truly enamoured with the weapon.
The nearest French ship, a frigate, had already unloaded her guns, and he was more than ready to return the compliment. He longed to see his own piece fling a ball of hot iron their way, and his hands all but itched at the firing line. But the time would come, and to vent his frustration he hurled an insult at Cox, one of the loaders. They were tie mates and each represented the closest thing to a friend either possessed. Cox took the abuse in good heart and replied in kind, adding a less than subtle discharge of wind that caused the other servers to laugh, comment or cuss appropriately. In less than ten minutes they would be in action, fighting what would be the darkest battle in their lives, and there was little harm in preparing for action.
* * *
King had charge of the gundeck and was standing with Rose in the waist just forward of the mainmast. From their position they could see little of the French line, other than a shadowy image of the nearest frigate that appeared and disappeared through the starboard gunports. They had heard the first enemy discharge and even now could smell the smoke as it rolled down upon them, but both knew it would be a while longer before the captain ordered any reply. In the meanwhile the gun crews sat or squatted on the deck beside their primed pieces. Each of the starboard battery was run out and roughly laid in favour of the nearest French ship. The salt boxes were filled with charges enough for two more rounds, and ready-use shot of every type was to hand. Some of the men prayed; a couple, King was almost certain, were playing an illicit game of crown and anchor; and there were numerous muted conversations interspersed with the occasional inappropriate shriek of excited laughter. King had been in action many times, far more than most lieutenants of his age, and knew there was nothing unusual in any of this. The waiting was always difficult and if men took relief where they could – in intellectual talk, meditation or coarse humour, or even more phusically through the pissdales and gunports – he would do little to stop them.
The sound of light thunder rolled out, followed by a commotion beginning at the stern, and soon there was excited whispering and someone actually cheered. Rose looked to him, his face unnaturally pale.
“What goes there?” King shouted to the nearest gun crew.
“It’s the Robust, sir,” a hand at number seven gun told him. “They’re leadin’ the attack on the frog’s rear. She’s just loosened off her first broadside.”
King and Rose walked across the deck and peered through the gunports. Yes, there was the British seventy-four. She was almost alongside the sternmost ship, and was currently covered in smoke from her own guns. He watched as the air cleared. Only a few pencils of returning fire came from the French ship, a frigate far smaller than the British battle-wagon. It was nigh on point-blank range; a broadside from a two-decker would have caused tremendous damage to the fabric of the lighter ship, as well as knocking much of the fight from her crew. But the frigate would be filled with armed men, and could well swamp even a liner should Robust be foolish enough to draw too close. As he watched another broadside rolled out. That was good timing, and must doubtless dishearten the French still further. Then there was the sound of another broadside, and he realised the ship behind Robust must also be in range.
His glance moved towards the nearest enemy to them. They had made good time. Scylla was closing at an obtuse angle; apparently Banks had chosen to turn slightly to larboard in order to increase speed and allow their broadside guns into action that much sooner. As he watched the French ship disappeared behind a wall of smoke and fire as she released her load, and King found he could watch quite dispassionately as the shots came towards him. There were a series of splashes about half a cable from their side, and one ball skipped twice before vanishing below the surface, thirty feet from where he stood. It was still long range, and at the speed they were going King felt it would not be that ship they closed with, but the next one ahead. There was another beyond that, so Banks was probably intending to penetrate the line there, and may well turn into the wind, stopping the enemy in its tracks and allowing both batteries to come into play.
It would be a bold move, one that must cause the ultimate confusion amongst the French, and he hoped that Robust and the others would be on hand quick enough to rescue them. He leaned further out of the port and attempted to look back to where Foudroyant and Canada must be. He could see no sign; they were probably shielded by Scylla‘s hull, or were too far behind to make a difference. Either way he knew that help would not come from that quarter; it was Robust and the others astern of her who could save them, no one else.
* * *
Ahead, the British frigate was still heading for destruction. Crowley watched it go, wondering at such reckless behaviour, although inwardly he acknowledged the gambit. Without doubt the ship would cause chaos amidst the leading French, and was likely to hold the entire line back, making them a present for the squadron coming up on their stern to enjoy at leisure.
Thinking of the second group of ships, he naturally turned to them, and was surprised to see they had crept uncomfortably close. The leader was a seventy-four. It had already engaged Embuscade, the tail-ender, and then moved on to Coquille immediately behind his ship. As he watched, another thundering broadside rolled out from the British liner’s great guns, leaving the frigate visibly shaken. Smoke could be seen coming from her forecastle, then the foremast began to topple. Crowley knew she was already as good as dead, and there were plenty more British following their leader to finish her off.
