‘We shall have both, Vizzard. As I stated, Rear Admiral Montagu has been detached with a force to deal with the convoy and we have a fleet powerful enough to deal with the Brest fleet, of that I am confident.’
‘Whichever of them we meet then, sir, it appears we are in for a fight,’ Jack replied.
* * * * *
The ensuing days and weeks passed all too slowly, with tensions rising at each report of an unknown sail, which never proved to belong to the enemy. Intelligence gathered from passing merchantmen was sparse and confusing. No word came from Montagu’s detached squadron, and the endless drill began to pall with even the best of Jack’s men.
Eyes were constantly straining seeking a focal point on the horizon in every direction, but chiefly to the west. Seamen blinked away salt tears as they stood braced on decks wondering who would be the first to detect the others’ fleet. Eyes reddened staring at the eternal, wavering liquid horizon; was that a sail or a surge of foam on a distant wave-top? Was that the hull of a ship or a cloud? If a ship, is it a friend or a foe? What is her course? Would today bring death or glory? Or worse; maimed for life from the loss of limb.
Then on the morning of Wednesday 28 May a sharp-eyed lookout on HMS Phaeton, one of Howe’s scouting frigates, spied a sail.
The fleet was 430 miles west of Ushant, according to Lieutenant Rowland Bevan’s estimate when he came on deck at three bells in the morning watch. He checked the slate and noted the fleet’s course as west of south west as the flagship, Queen Charlotte, threw out a signal sending a powerful charge through the entire British fleet as soon as it could be discerned: signal number one – enemy in sight! The word spread throughout the ship in a moment. All those permitted on deck, and several who were not, found themselves staring ahead and estimating when the battle would commence. The chatter flew about the Brunswick until silenced by the captain’s appearance on deck. He scowled them into a watchful calm, waiting for battle to be joined between the two fleets. It was not that day to the frustration of all, the hours passing with agonising lack of progress until the admiral eventually signalled at 10 that morning to tack in succession followed quickly by signal number 7: “general chase.”
‘Oh Lord’, said Bevan to nobody in particular, ‘this is to be a drawn-out business today.’
‘Why is that, sir?’ asked Midshipman Lucas.
‘Because, dear boy, the admiral cannot position the fleet to best advantage. We will spend the day chasing their tail and be damned lucky to see a Frenchie afore nightfall.’
‘We have to follow the flag, sir’, said Lucas.
‘Oh yes, indeed, Mister Lucas. We must follow the flag. The difficulty is we will never get within range of even the rear of the Frogs. If we could but cut their line in several points at once… now that would see us in a pell-mell, only-the-best-will-succeed kind of fight. That is what I suspect Howe seeks, but it will take us hours in this weather to even touch their rear’
‘Why so, sir?’ The young man asked.
Lieutenant Bevan paced to the weather side, followed meekly by the midshipman and said, ‘smell the wind, Mister Lucas. What do you smell?’
‘Is it cook preparing breakfast, sir? I swear I could eat a horse this morning.’ The middie licked his lips to emphasise his point.
Midshipmen were always hungry, thought Bevan. ‘Midshipmen are always hungry,’ he said aloud. ‘I was and all in my gunroom were too. It improves only in modest degree once one obtains a commission,’ he grunted, taking up his glass once more to study the flagship as she glided through the silver sea. He thought he picked out gold lace on the quarterdeck, wondering if it were Howe or his flag captain, Sir Roger Curtis.
‘Admiral is signalling, Mister Lucas; preparatory. Let us see how quickly you can decipher it, please.’
Lucas pulled himself monkey-like up the larboard ratlines and onto the mizzen’s fighting top as the signal flags whipped open and from where he had a good line of sight. He held onto a shroud pulling a small telescope to his eye for half a minute. Then, tucking it away, a notebook and the stub of a pencil appeared from his jacket and made some rapid notes.
‘To Bellerophon, sir. Admiral Pasley is to take the flying squadron and reconnoitre strange sails to the south. It has to be the French, sir!’ He shouted down to the deck, made his way to the backstay and slid down in a few seconds, leaping to the deck nimbly, just as Captain Harvey announced his own arrival on deck.
‘Have we found the enemy, Mister Bevan?’ Harvey could not contain the excitement he felt, his eyes sparkling with anticipation.
‘It does appear so, sir. I’ll send more lookouts to the main and foretop to keep a particular eye on the flagship and his lordship’s manoeuvres, sir,’ he replied. ‘Shall we bring the people to quarters, sir?’ he asked.
‘Not yet, Mister Bevan,’ Harvey answered in his cultured voice, ‘let us wait on developments, shall we. There is plenty of time to get the men ready.’ Harvey pulled his own telescope from under his arm, a four-draw instrument by Benjamin Martin his brother had gifted to him on his taking command of Brunswick, as the ship slowly rolled beneath his feet. ‘Mister Lucas, your shoulder if you will; I need a support.’
The midshipman obliged allowing the captain to rest his telescope on the young man’s left shoulder, as he gazed along the line of the British fleet. ‘Ain’t that a sight, sir?’ The youngster grinned, enjoying the moment and the wind on his cheek.
‘A rare sight indeed, Mister Lucas. One I may never see again in my lifetime.’ Harvey grunted in approval and pulled the telescope close with a smooth, slow movement. The great line of canvas cathedrals sailed onward, the tension rising in the hearts of the men who drove them.
* * * * *
Later, he watched as the French fleet came into view and there they remained for some hours, the French hove to while a large three-decker sailed along the length of their fleet, perhaps relaying orders or encouragement. Hours passed as the enemy struggled to form their line, slowly, interminably, being blown slowly toward Howe’s hungry fleet, as a shoal of fish to the waiting British net. The British, for their part, took the opportunity to have lunch, when Howe signalled, with inappropriate courtesy, ‘The people may have time to dine’.
As the order was passed through the ship, tension turned to humour. ‘Time to dine’, said Sergeant Packer. ‘What is this; a bloody society dinner! Let’s get at the buggers.’ he said with gritted teeth, to be greeted with a roar of approval from his men.
From the quarterdeck Captain John Harvey smiled appreciatively. Signal number seven, with two guns: “General chase to the whole fleet.” Now the hunt is on, he thought. ‘Mister Cracraft,’ he shouted to the first lieutenant on watch, pausing to enjoy the moment, ‘clear for action if you would, please.’
With those few words Brunswick became, in an instant, a disturbed anthill of activity. A marine drummer beat a raucous rhythm on his drum. Below him he heard screens being knocked down, above furniture hauled into the upper rigging, splinter netting was strung over the decks and several barrels of water were taken to the fighting tops to aid in the event of fire aloft. Seamen ran up the companionways and fanned along the deck to their allotted stations, yelling at shipmates and grinning like demons, eager to be the first to reach the positions at which death, or glory, were to be found.
‘Now we shall have a fight, Mister Lucas,’ Harvey smiled kindly at the youngster, ‘are you ready to do your duty?’
‘Ye… yes, sir.’ The young man stuttered, taking control of his emotions. ‘Of course I am, sir.’
‘Admiral signalling again, sir,’ Lieutenant Cracraft interrupted, lowering his glass, ‘Number 41 sir, “engage the enemy’s rear.” It will be our turn soon enough, I fancy.’ Cracraft spoke with more sangfroid than he felt. ‘We simply have to wait for our part of the line to…’
‘I am a patient man, Lieutenant, but this waiting is always the worst part of it,’ Harvey spoke sharply. ‘Black Dick wants a melee, Cracraft, and by God so
do I.’ Harvey could now all but smell the glory he sought. He could hear the roars from the seamen below decks and thought he could hear also the shouts of Frenchmen across the narrowing space of rolling sea.
The state of excitement was palpable; the people thought now of nothing more than to perform the duty their captain expected of them. Their cheering and huzzas moved him.
He raised his glass again; there, now he saw a glimpse of the French, just ahead of Russell, the first of the British fleet, commanded by his friend, John Payne. There also he could make out Bellorophon, the Greek god who slayed the Chimera; there too was Marlborough, Thunderer, Leviathan – with all sail spread, majestically cresting a wave and proceeding like the sea monster for which she was named.
Russell opened fire and the waiting game was over.
The battle had begun.
CHAPTER 16
‘If oid a known it would all come to nought, I would have stayed abed, mates’, Michael O’Farrell spat a plug of tobacco into the bucket under the mess table, as the order to down hammocks was beaten on the drum and audible through the entire ship. ‘Oi bin standing in the mizzen top all bleedin’ day and not had even a pot at a bluidy Frog.’
‘Aw pipe down, Paddy,’ said Packer. ‘You’ll have the chance to get your bleedin’ `ead blown off soon enough.’
‘I’d like to meet the French bugger dat tinks he could, Sergeant Joe,’ O’Farrell retorted, reloading his mouth with another plug of tobacco. ‘Cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey, it was. Got any rum, sergeant?’
The weather had become squally as the afternoon had progressed. Reports from the flagship provided only little information to the rest of the fleet. Harvey learned Bellorophon had received a mauling from a large Frenchman. Word had spread, as it did in a fleet on a high state of readiness, of how La Revolutionnaire, one of the enemy’s major ships of 110 guns, had fought alone against several British ships for many hours inflicting much damage on Bellorophon. The British warships Thunderer and Audacious had both acquitted themselves with honour, with Audacious retiring from the scene, severely mauled. The news had a sobering effect on many of the lower deck.
With the wind blowing hard the onset of nightfall had brought an end to the inconclusive action. Night signal-lights, grouped as triangles, were suspended from the rigging of British ships, another order from Earl Howe, with ships’ lookouts straining every nerve to follow the flickering, dancing lights during the blustery night. Sailors in both fleets found little sleep, lying or crouching by their guns, ears alert to the slightest sound, nerves as taut as the marines’ drums.
The following morning, as the middle watch came to an end, Howe issued another order even before the sun spilled its fragile rays over the battleground, requiring the fleet to form line of battle ahead or astern of the flagship and to leave off the chase.
The French fleet formed up in disciplined fashion, as Captain Harvey had noted in his log, as he lowered his telescope. ‘Humph’, he grunted, ‘Monsieur Frog appears to be competent in manoeuvring his fleet, Cracraft.’
‘Yes, sir but can he fight as well as he swims, sir?’ the First Lieutenant answered. ‘Our gunnery is certain to be superior.’
‘One hopes we have the chance to find the answer to the question, Mister Cracraft.’ Harvey scanned the mainmast. ‘I think we’ll shake out a reef, we are making heavy weather of it in this growing swell.’ He steadied his legs as the wind, gusting from the south-west, delivered another sheet of salt rain into their reddened faces, filling their boots and chilling them all to the inners.
‘Keep a close eye on the flagship and the admiral’s signals, Mister Cracraft,’ said Harvey heading for his cabin. ‘I’m in need of some breakfast. His Lordship will most likely be moving us closer to the enemy. We are still a league or more from them, in my estimation.’
The admiral had challenges to contend with first; the French were on the western horizon heading south, close-hauled against the strong southwesterly. To force an engagement from his leeward position, Howe would have to have the fleet tack, more than once, within sight and even cannon range of his enemy. He had to handle his fleet with some skill and that depended on the skill of his captains.
And they were all to be tested.
* * * * *
Howe signalled his first manoeuvre at 7 a.m., requiring the fleet to tack in succession. Now he was on course to intercept and cut the French line.
‘Oh hell and damnation,’ said Jack Vizzard to Lieutenant Bevan, as they watched from the foremast. ‘This looks wrong to me, Rowland. It must be we have tacked too soon, or the enemy is faster than His Lordship estimated. At this rate we shall pass to their rear. Tell me I’m in error, will you?’
‘Keep them in view, Jack. You may yet be proved wrong,’ replied Bevan. ‘There you have it, our turn to tack in just one minute then you shall see’.
From the quarterdeck the order bellowed from the First Lieutenant’s speaking trumpet, the hands positioned at the braces sprang to action and the efficient Brunswick turned sweetly to starboard and into the wind as the main course crackled and flapped briefly, directly in the wake of Montague, commanded by James Montague, who had requested the command for no better reason than the commonality of the ship’s name.
‘Hah, there did I not tell you so, Jack? There is your enemy. Now we shall be among them afore dinner and a mêlée we shall have.’ Rowland Bevan’s eyes appeared to glow at the prospect of battle.
‘You are a bloodthirsty devil, Rowland. I do believe you have no fear of death. I on the other hand, now have a family to sustain and worry for my wife and children.’ Jack’s appearance grew wistful, unlike the terrifying warrior he could become in the heat of action.
‘You are wrong, Jack. I am no madman, simply a humble officer anxious to do my duty – and destroy the French!’
‘I cannot help but feel we are in the wrong place, Rowland. Our chief purpose is to prevent the convoy from America reaching port. Find that convoy, capture it, destroy it if necessary; but prevent the French from having the supplies they need to sustain its armies. Surely it is what we should be about, and this cat-chase-mouse game of ours is not going to do. The French admiral is laying a false trail for us to follow; in my opinion.’
‘Mister Bevan,’ the strong rising voice of Captain Harvey from the quarterdeck, distorted by the speaking trumpet, ‘the admiral is signalling but we cannot decipher all. Can you assist from your perch?’
Most of the signal flags were obscured by drifting smoke mixed with the lighter mist from the bubbling frothy sea. Bevan spent a long minute staring through the opaque lens.
‘Sir, I fancy it is an order to tack in succession, but regret it is not entirely clear to me,’ he shouted back.
‘Are any others preparing to tack, Mister Bevan?’
Again, Bevan steadied the telescope, twisted to focus on the straggling line of British ships. ‘It does not appear so, sir,’ he bellowed, shaking his head in emphasis.
‘Then we shall maintain our course. So be it.’ shouted Harvey.
* * * * *
Below decks men were growing tired and restless. A fight broke out between a marine and an infantryman of the 29th Foot. A bayonet was drawn by the soldier, but dropped when Sergeant Packer intervened with his musket, ‘Now son, your toothpick will not stop a ball. You best drop that afore I blow what you call your fucking brains out!’ The soldier stepped back into the shadows and disappeared, amid a torrent of lower-deck language from the handful of the marines gathered around.
‘Thanks sergeant,’ said Tom Clutterbuck. ‘Sorry, but it turned a bit grim too bloody quickly. I weren’t looking for to pick a fight, honest.’
‘If you want to lose them stripes faster than you earned `em you found the right way to do it, young Tom!’ Sergeant Packer liked his junior corporal, not because he was Vizzard’s former servant, but simply because he had brought the boy on in the Corps, taken him under his wing and taught him soldiering. The boy Jack Vizza
rd once knew was now a man, a useful man to have in the platoon, who had earned the respect of the men. ‘What was it all about, anyway?’
‘Something and nothing, sarge. Just a bit of banter about how marines can shoot better `n faster than the infantry!’ Tom’s teeth shone in the dim light of the `tween decks.
‘Reckon there was more to it than what you say, lad. Best keep out of his way and `ope nowt comes of it. You keep your eyes sharp, Tom; Mister Vizzard would be a might upset if anything were to `appen to you.’
‘Um, well it were more about Mister Vizzard, sergeant. He said that Mister Vizzard was a dirty, scruffy scoundrel and a Newgate attorney and what not. It got out of hand.’ Tom Clutterbuck picked up the bayonet as it slid across the deck. ‘And I won’t have scum like that talking ill of Lieutenant Vizzard,’ he said, spitting the words through his teeth. ‘But, sarge, please do not be telling Mister Vizzard about this.’
‘Oh and why should I not, my lad? Think he might put you on punishment? And you think I’ll not do the same?’ Packer grinned. He would not discipline one of his best men for something he would have done himself. ‘No more fighting, Tom. You save your energy for the French, whatever the provocation, or it’s a floggin’ for you, lad. Mister Vizzard would not be able to prevent you meeting the ship’s cat. We ain’t
wanting to embarrass the lieutenant now do we?’
Thus admonished, the only acceptable reply Tom could offer was a meek, ‘No sergeant.’
* * * * *
At a little before four bells in the afternoon watch it appeared to those observing the French fleet, which included every man with the opportunity to do so the French were taking avoiding action, unwilling to take up the challenge of battle offered. Earl Howe threw out another signal for a general chase. Less than an hour later they were no more than a mile apart; shots were exchanged, but the mêlée Howe desired to bring about failed to materialise. Not until the falling sand in the glass signified the end of the first dogwatch did full broadsides roar out across the rolling swell of the Atlantic.
THE GLORIOUS FIRST: The first fleet action of the French Revolutionary War (The Jack Vizzard Chronicles Book 2) Page 19
