After an hour, during which he feigned disinterest in the ship in favour of painting a watercolour of Flushing about four miles away across the water, two of the soldiers left the group and sauntered over. “You must leave the beach, mein Herr.”
He looked up in surprise. “I must? Why should that be necessary? Am I in danger?” After several weeks of inaction, why were these soldiers making a military display?
The smaller of the two spat and hefted his musket. “Those are our orders. Leave immediately.”
“Very well. If I have time to pack my paints and easel. I still cannot see the reason.”
“You are forbidden to look at the ship.”
“Ship? What ship?” he said, carefully looking the wrong way.
“Not that way, mein Herr. The one there with the smoke. You must not see it.”
Holmes thought this was becoming ridiculous. “Very well. I do not see the ship with the smoke. Is it all right if I go back to my cottage?”
The other soldier scowled at him. “As long as you do not look out.”
“Very well, I will return to the cottage and close all the shutters.”
“Very good, mein Herr,” the smaller soldier said. “You must see nothing.”
All the way back to the cottage he considered these strange orders. The soldiers had not been ordered to stop people from looking out to sea before. Clearly, today’s order had been intended to mask some new activity. Was it the invasion? He was every bit as curious as to the identity of the strange steamship, but he had better wait until he reached the cottage where he might climb into the attic and look out of the holes in the roof.
The other item of note was that the previous French soldiers had been replaced by these, of some Germanic ally of Napoleon. They could be Saxons or even Hanoverians from a part of the Confederation of the Rhine still allied to France. That surely meant that the French troops had been given a more active role to play somewhere else. He must prepare a report to send to England, but it could be difficult sending it on the ferry to Flushing if all the other soldiers were preventing civilians from “looking at the ships”.
As soon as he arrived, he climbed up the ladder into the attic and slid open the segments of the telescope. The steamship seemed to have come no closer than it had been when he observed it from the headland. However, with the magnification he was able to determine its details.
It was three masted, but in addition to the suite of square rig sails it also had two tall funnels that poured smoke. He could see the starboard side paddlewheel box and the spray from the paddles as it moved at possibly ten knots toward Flushing. The paddle boxes were huge, almost a third of the length of the hull. He was sure he had seen sketches of this vessel at the Admiralty this Spring―it was Laird’s HMS Ironside.
Further out to sea several masts of sailing ships were almost certainly vessels of the blockade accompanying it. He supposed the Admiralty plan to let the French steamships have free access to the Channel still held, but that the dispute about the tactics to use with the steamships was still undecided.
While he watched, the trim of the sails slowly changed and the vessel turned onto a new course―not steaming toward Flushing but almost directly at his vantage point as if its captain had thought better of leaving the open sea for the more confined waters of the Westerschelde.
He wondered if something had prompted this change and moved to another place in the attic where he had a view of the rest of the estuary. It did not take long before he saw what had caused the change in course. He could see another steamship just off Neuzen and steaming toward the sea. This one also had masts and yards and two funnels, but its huge beam identified it as the French ironclad, steaming to take up the challenge of the Ironside.
He spent an hour or two making sketches of the two ships and drawings of their locations against the shores of the estuary. At one point the Ironside ventured closer to Flushing, but then turned away as coastal batteries fired on it. The sails of the blockade ships came closer, but only one frigate ventured in to take up a watching position as the steamships closed on one another.
While the first movements of the ships seemed no more than the movements of dancers in a ballet, or enraged stallions marking their turf, they suddenly seemed to have consented to clash and put on speed. Holmes watched, horrified, as the two ships closed and began manoeuvring for advantage. The French vessel was clearly outclassed in that capability, but as soon as they closed to accurate gun range, its gunners began shooting at the paddle box in Ironside’s exposed side. The French also had the advantage of carrying thirty guns to the Ironside’s sixteen―the difference being due to the length of broadside occupied by the paddle boxes.
For about a half hour, the ships fought and manoeuvred with seemingly no crippling blows administered to either, the Frenchman carrying the most guns but Ironside the heavier armament. Holmes wondered who captained the Laird vessel. Names had been bandied about and favourites championed around the Admiralty before he left but no Post Captain had both seniority and steam experience. Then he saw something that drew a groan from his mouth. The impact of half a dozen shots together on the Ironside’s port paddle box sent pieces of the paddlewheel flying into the air.
The vessel swung around out of control before the crew could stop the remaining paddle, and another dozen French cannon shots slammed into the bow. Holmes winced as he visualised the cannon balls careening down the unprotected decks inside, for the armour protection was weaker at the extremities. The French captain then attempted to get around his enemy to fire at the other paddle box but the Ironside reversed on that surviving paddle and kept that unengaged side safe.
But the end of the fight was now inevitable. The French ironclad closed to shorten range as the gun crews aboard Ironside were weakened. Smoke issued from the engineroom hatches and several of the gun ports. Shots aimed at the masts brought the mainmast crashing down onto the deck. The Frenchman was able to close with the stern of Ironside and a full broadside went into the hull through the cabin windows.
Holmes watched, close to tears, until the Ironside hauled down its colours, then he scrambled down the ladder and rushed about the cottage gathering enough food, a blanket, and a warm cape to sustain him on a journey. He must walk to Neuzen―further if he could not send his report from there.
He set out along the shore and was almost at Breskens when he saw the whole fleet of invasion craft making its way to sea. He counted eight pyroscaphes towing barges, innumerable shallow draught sailing craft, a hundred gunboats, and rowed landing barges. The invasion had started. The French ironclad turned to take its place amid the throng to protect them on their voyage to Boulogne where they would meet the rest of the army.
He must get his report to Walcheren and into the hands of the cutter crews who braved the French almost every night to collect vital intelligence. He had to find a vessel to take him across the Westerschelde. He must risk his luck with the soldiers.
Chapter Thirty-four
War Drums
More than halfway across the English Channel, Commander Worthington looked back at the squadron of spitefuls. His flotilla of three ships were ahead, while Captain Hawke led the other four in echelon. They were in company with several frigates and a seventy-four, but the spitefuls were steadily leaving them behind. Ahead lay Boulogne and the navy’s inshore squadron that had sent the warning of the French steamships raising steam.
The Admiral commanding in the Downs had agreed to the spitefuls crossing the Channel to “trail their coat” off Boulogne. With luck, to gain the information no other British vessel could without the near certainty of the French ironclad overhauling and sinking them. Britain’s pride, the fleets of sailing ships, had been reduced to spectators that could neither fight nor run away. Worthington and Hawke had accepted the duty, and between themselves had agreed that if the opportunity presented itself to engage the French, they would not run away.
The government in Whitehall had not announced the loss
of HMS Ironside three days before, but wild rumours flew from everyone’s lips. The commander of the Army of Kent, Field Marshal Wellesley, visited the fleet and told both him and Hawke that the Government dare not admit to the failure of Ironside without some success to set beside it. “You must be the Government’s saviours,” he had said. “They fear panic and uprising without good news.”
Lord Bond drew his horse’s gallop to a slow trot as he came alongside his companion, Count Nikolai Rostov, and looked down the hill toward the Rhine at Kaub where the Cossacks were preparing to cross. He was attached to Field Marshal Blücher’s Army of Silesia as an envoy of the British government, with his dispatches from the field conveyed by diplomatic post through Prussia to the Royal Navy and thence to London. The allied invasion of France had started and he was one of the few British diplomats on the continent.
Somewhere on the other side of the Rhine was Marshal Marmont with a French army of ten thousand, watching the frontier. It was believed in the Allied Headquarters that the main French force was at Strasbourg, between the Prussian-Russian Army of Silesia and the main force of the Austrian Army of Bohemia under Schwarzenberg, which was already crossing the River at Basel. With a total force of two hundred thousand allied troops, they hoped to catch the French in a pincers and destroy this army before Napoleon could join it with the invasion army.
Bond had seen the secret dispatches from Antwerp that reported Napoleon’s army at sea. Later information said they had anchored at Boulogne to add the troops there to the force crossing the Channel. He wondered if the British plan to sideswipe Napoleon with the attack across the Rhine had come before the invasion fleet set sail. All common sense told him that Napoleon must withdraw whatever troops he could and send them to protect Paris. His chosen objective would surely be to join the rest of his Marshals near the city and together prevent the Allied force from bringing down his empire.
Count Rostov looked back at him and spoke in their one common language, French. “Well, My Lord, do you wish to go over with the Cossacks, or are you content to stay at the army’s headquarters tonight and hear their report in the morning?” They were acting as staff officers for Sacken’s Corps, primarily keeping tabs on the Cossack light cavalry, whose method of warfare was to loot and pillage the countryside as they ranged about in undisciplined tribal groups. They were invaluable as scouts and outpost troops but often forgot to keep the generals informed where they were and what they had found.
“Well, Excellency, would you not rather go into France tonight and capture a pair of fresh maidens at Bacherach than sit and drink vodka with a bunch of men whose uniforms all smell of horse shit?”
Nikolai laughed. “There are no pretty frauleins on the German side of the Rhine?”
Bond shook his head. “I do not doubt but that their fathers and brothers will spend these nights with their muskets guarding them until the army moves on.”
“Ah, it is sad we have such a poor reputation, my friend. Do you suppose your government would welcome a Russian army in England to fight against the invasion?”
Lord Bond laughed. “Would you like me to send such a request to Whitehall tonight? I am sure Lord Liverpool would be greatly moved by such an offer.”
“But you suppose the invasion is already beaten?”
Lord Bond smiled. “Let me guess . . . surprised at who they find also at sea.”
When they met the furthest of the Royal Navy’s ships off Boulogne, a twenty-eight gun frigate still under all sail and running from the French sails on the horizon, Worthington had the flag hoist “K” raised to ask for a communication. The rest of the flotilla slowed to wait for him as the frigate shortened sail to speak.
“Are the French at sea?”
“They are leaving harbour, but only that great armoured beast is in the offing.”
“And the other steamships?”
“We had no chance to see before the French frigates came after us, but there was a huge power o’ smoke goin’ up at the town.”
Captain Hawke’s Wallace drew near. “Do you have a plan, Commander?”
“As we agreed. If we have to fight the ironclad, I will take my column to keep it busy while you take yours inshore to attack the pyroscaphes and their barges.”
“You will fight the ironclad?”
“My ships will be dogs at a bear-baiting. We will harry, not engage.”
Captain Hawke stood at the rail. “We will do as much damage as we can while you support us, but I choose not to stay long.”
“Aye. As long as we turn the steamships and their barges back.”
The frigate continued on its course toward the rest of the sailing ships, and Worthington called his other two ships to come close. “When we reach the French ironclad, remember to keep at long range. The only point where we could do useful ramming is in his stern, where we might damage his steering. We will use our rockets first.”
The spitefuls increased speed and returned to formation, this time aiming to catch the French frigates whose sails they could still see on the horizon. Worthington felt they may distract the ironclad from protecting the pyroscaphes if its captain thought he might catch them chasing the fleeing frigates.
He left the quartermaster’s position to speak to his rocket men in the bow. “Did you load any of those 32 pounder incendiary rockets when we were at Chatham?” he asked the leading gunner inside as he leaned in the opened door.
“Aye, Cap’n, we has mostly they . . . as the armourer thought fit.”
“What range will they make?”
“Nigh on two mile us was told, but we canna launch at that angle.”
“A mile maybe?”
“Fer sure.”
“Have those rockets ready when we see the ironclad. I will send Lieutenant Trent to tell you when to fire.”
They pursued the frigates for three miles before they saw the smoke of a steamship on the horizon. He had the signaller hoist a message for his other two vessels to ready their rockets.
Another mile and the masts of the ironclad were visible. The vessel had three masts on each of the two joined hulls and its sails trimmed to take the best wind―like their steamers, always ready to economize on coal. If they didn’t reduce sail for combat, his rockets should find ready targets.
When the Frenchmen saw the spitefuls approaching, the ironclad changed course to meet them bow on. The range was too great for the plan he intended so he ordered a change of course to see if the French captain would oblige him with a broadside view at a mile distance.
The ironclad turned to follow and ran out its guns on that bearing as the sails were trimmed again to the wind.
Worthington spoke to Trent and the quartermasters. “They seem to be obliging. Another four cables closer and I will turn toward him.” He turned to the signaller. “Send the signal ‘follow me’ to my flotilla when I change course.”
No one spoke as the distance shortened. The size of the vessel soon became apparent; he had never been this close when he attempted to rescue Medusa. The two hulls seemed as more than a whole squadron of frigates at this angle.
Lieutenant Trent made a throat-clearing cough.
Worthington looked at him. “Yes, I agree. We are close enough now. Quartermaster, turn directly toward the enemy.”
The Spiteful now turned four points, and gained a good broadside view with their prow aimed at the enemy’s bowsprit.
“That is close enough, Mister Trent, tell the rocket crews to fire.”
At that moment, the ironclad opened fire with its port side bow-chaser. One piece of information Lady Bond did not get was the size of the bow-chasers. Were they chosen for weight of fire or range? They would soon learn.
The cannon ball hit the water half a cable away and splashed down again just short of them. Yes, chosen for range. They would have to watch out for their fire.
Trent reached the rocket redoubt and leaned in. Worthington timed how long it would take for the rockets to fire as Trent returned at a run. No m
ore than a quarter of a minute passed when eight rockets climbed into the sky with red flame and tails of grey powder smoke. Worthington turned to the quartermaster again. “Turn six points away to starboard.”
The rockets were no more than half way to the ironclad when it opened up with a full broadside. The 24 pounders that Roberta had seen at Antwerp should have an accurate range of six cables. Spiteful would be outside of that.
The rockets reached the ironclad and the powder in their warheads ignited.
Rockets were notoriously inaccurate but he only needed a few good fires started. Spiteful was now on an opposite course to the Frenchman. The next vessel in the flotilla, the Regent with Lieutenant Farley in command, was nearing the point to fire their rockets.
The shot from the enemy’s broadside started splashing down around them. Several fountains of spray went up, and the solid crashes of cannonballs hitting their sides echoed in the iron hull.
Regent’s rockets flew and that vessel turned to starboard to follow Spiteful.
Lieutenant Trent stood at the rail with his telescope trained.
“Did we have any hits, Mister Trent?”
“One, perhaps. I see smoke amidships on the weather deck.”
Worthington let out an angry snort. He wanted to catch their sails and masts on fire. That would be enough threat to make the ironclad retire. “Watch for Farley’s, if you will.”
The third vessel in the flotilla, Lieutenant Copeland’s HMS Glasgow, reached the point to fire, as Trent gave a whoop. “The mainsails are a-blaze. Farley has them a-fire!”
Worthington smiled. “That is good, Lieutenant. Would you please go below to see what damage we suffered from that broadside?”
Glasgow’s rockets were in the air when the French fired their next broadside. The range was less than when Spiteful received the first, and Worthington watched anxiously. The Glasgow was bracketed by the fall of shot and must have sustained damage but was able to turn six points away to follow.
Scandal and Secrets Page 19
