At night they could see the lines of camp-fires, the glow of lanterns, and occasionally hear the bark of cannon from the batteries covering the beaches which opened fire on an insolent British cutter working too close inshore.
Now Drinkwater waited for the cable to cease rumbling through the hawse and for Hill to straighten up from the vanes of the pelorus as Antigone settled to her anchor.
‘Brought up, sir.’
‘Very well. Mr Hill, Mr Rogers, would you care to dine with me? Perhaps you’d bring one of your mates, Mr Hill, and a couple of midshipmen.’
Mullender had fattened a small pig in the manger on scraps and that morning pronounced it ready for sacrifice. Already the scent of roasting pork had been hanging over the quarterdeck for some time and Drinkwater had been shamed into sending a leg into the gunroom and another into the cockpit. Mullender had been outraged by this largesse, particularly when Drinkwater ordered what was left after his own leg had been removed to be sent forward. But it seemed too harsh an application of privilege to subject his men to the aroma of sizzling crackling and deny them a few titbits. Besides, their present cruising ground was so near home that reprovisioning was no problem.
A companionable silence descended upon the table as the hungry officers took knife and fork to the dismembered pig.
‘You are enjoying your meal, Mr Gillespy, I believe?’ remarked Drinkwater, amused at the ecstatic expression on the midshipman’s face.
‘Yes, sir,’ the boy squeaked, ‘thanking you sir, for your invitation . . .’ He flushed as the other diners laughed at him indulgently.
‘Well, Mr Gillespy,’ added Rogers, his mouth still full and a half-glass of stingo aiding mastication and simultaneous speech, ‘it’s an improvement on the usual short commons, eh?’
‘Indeed, sir, it is.’
‘You had some mail today, Mr Q, news of home I trust?’ Drinkwater asked, knowing three letters had come off in the despatch lugger Sparrow that forenoon.
‘Yes, sir. Catriona sends you her kindest wishes.’ James Quilhampton grinned happily.
‘D’you intend to marry this filly then, Mr Q?’ asked Rogers.
‘If she’ll have me,’ growled Quilhampton, flushing at the indelicacy of the question.
‘Can’t see the point of marriage, myself,’ Rogers said morosely.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ put in Hill. ‘Its chief advantage is that you can walk down the street with a woman on your arm without exciting damn-fool comments from y’r friends.’
‘Fiddlesticks!’ Rogers looked round at the half-concealed smirks of Quilhampton and Frey. Even little Gillespy seemed to perceive a well-known joke. ‘What the devil d’you mean, Hill?’ demanded Rogers, colouring.
‘That you cut out a pretty little corvette, trimmed fore and aft with ribbons and lace, with an entry port used by half the fleet in Chatham . . .’
‘God damn it . . .’
‘Now had you been married we would have thought it your wife, don’t you see?’
‘Why . . . I . . .’
‘No, Hill, we’d never have fallen for that,’ said James Quilhampton, getting his revenge. ‘A married man would not have been so imprudent as to have carried so much sail upon his bowsprit!’
Upon this phallic reference the company burst into unrestrained laughter at the first lieutenant’s discomfiture. Rogers coloured and Drinkwater came to his rescue.
‘Take it in good part, Sam. I heard she was devilish pretty and these fellows are only jealous. Besides I’ve news for you. You need no longer stand a watch. I received notice this morning that Keith wants us to find a place for an élève of his, a Lieutenant Fraser . . .’
‘Oh God, a Scotchman,’ complained Rogers, irritated by Quilhampton and knowing his partiality in that direction. Mullender drew the cloth and placed the decanter in front of Drinkwater. He filled his glass and sent it round the table.
‘And now, gentlemen . . . The King!’
Drinkwater looked round the table and reflected that they were not such a bad set of fellows and it was a very pleasant day to be dining, with the reflections of sunlight on the water bouncing off the painted deckhead and the polished glasses.
Two days later the weather wore a different aspect. Since dawn Antigone had worked closer inshore under easy sail, having been informed by signal that some unusual activity was taking place in the harbour and anchorage of Boulogne Road. By noon the wind, which had been steadily freshening from the north during the forenoon, began to blow hard, sending a sharp sea running round Cap Gris Nez and among the considerable numbers of invasion craft anchored under the guns of Boulogne’s defences.
The promise of activity, either action with the enemy or the need to reef down, had aroused the curiosity of the officers and the watch on deck. A dozen glasses were trained to the eastward.
‘Mr Frey, make to Constitution to come within hail.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’ The bunting rose jerkily to the lee mizen topsail yard and broke out. Drinkwater watched the hired cutter that two days earlier had brought their new lieutenant. She tacked and lay her gunwhale over until she luffed under the frigate’s stern. Drinkwater could see her commander, Lieutenant Dennis, standing expectantly on a gun-carriage. He raised a speaking-trumpet.
‘Alert Captain Owen of the movement in the Road!’ He saw Dennis wave and the jib of Constitution was held aback as she spun on her heel and lay over again on a board reach to the west where Owen in the Immortalité was at anchor with the frigate Leda. Owen was locally the senior officer of Keith’s ‘Boulogne division’ and it was incumbent upon Drinkwater to let him know of any unusual movements of the French that might be taken advantage of.
‘Well, gentlemen, let’s slip the hounds off the leash. Mr Frey, make to Harpy, Bloodhound and Archer Number Sixteen: “Engage the enemy more closely”.’ The 18-gun sloop and the two little gun-brigs were a mile or so to the eastward and eager for such a signal. Within minutes they were freeing off and running towards the dark cluster of French bateaux above which the shapes of sails were being hoisted.
‘Mr Hill, a man in the chains with a lead. Beat to quarters and clear for action, Mr Rogers.’ He stood beside the helmsmen. ‘Up helm. Lee forebrace there . . .’
Antigone eased round to starboard under her topsails and began to bear down on the French coast. The sun was already westering in a bloody riot of purple cloud and great orange streaks of mare’s tails presaging more wind on the morrow. Antigone stood on, coming within clear visual range of the activity in the anchorage.
‘Forty-four, forty-five brigs and – what’ve you got on that slate, Frey? – forty-three luggers, sir,’ reported Quilhampton, who had been diligently counting the enemy vessels as the sun broke briefly through the cloud and shot rays of almost horizontal light over the sea, foreshortening distances and rendering everything suddenly clear. Then it sank from view and left the silhouettes of the Immortalité and Leda on the horizon, coming in from the west.
The small ships were close inshore, the flashes from their guns growing brighter as daylight diminished and the tide turned. Owen made the signal for withdrawal and the Antigone, in company with the Harpy, Bloodhound and Archer, drew off for the night and rode out the rising gale at anchor three leagues offshore.
At daylight on the following day, 20th July, Drinkwater was awoken by Midshipman Dutfield. ‘Beg pardon, sir, but Mr Fraser’s compliments, sir, and would you come on deck.’
Drinkwater emerged into the thin light of early morning. The north-north-westerly wind was blowing with gale force. The Channel waves were steep, sharp and vicious and Antigone rode uncomfortably to her anchor. The flood tide was just away and the frigate lay across wind and tide, rolling awkwardly. But it was not this circumstance that the new lieutenant wished to draw to Drinkwater’s attention.
‘There, sir,’ he pointed, ‘just beyond the low-water mark, lines of fascines to form a rough wall with artillery . . . see!’ Fraser broke off his description as the French gave evi
dence of their purpose. The flash of cannon from the low-water mark was aimed at the gun-brigs anchored inshore. Out of range of the batteries along the cliffs, they were extremely vulnerable to shot from a half-mile nearer. The French, as if demonstrating their ingenious energy, had made temporary batteries on the dry sands and could withdraw their guns as the tide made. What was more, shot fired on a flat trajectory so near the surface of the sea could skip like stones upon a pond. They’d smash a gun-brig with ease and might, with luck, range out much further.
‘It’s bluidy clever, sir.’
‘Aye, Mr Fraser . . . but why today?’ Drinkwater adjusted his glass and immediately had his answer. At the hour at which it was normal to see lines of infantry answering the morning roll-call he was aware of something very different about the appearance of the French camps. Dark snakes wound their way down towards the dip in the hills where the roofs and belfries of Boulogne indicated the port.
‘By heaven, Mr Fraser, they’re embarking!’
‘In this weather, sir?’
‘Wind or not, they’re damned well on the move . . .’ The two officers watched for some minutes in astonishment. ‘There are a lot less bateaux in the anchorage this morning,’ Drinkwater observed.
‘Happen they’ve hauled them inshore to embark troops.’
‘That must have been a ticklish business in this wind with a sea running.’
‘Aye.’
As the tide made, Owen ordered his tiny squadron under weigh and once again Antigone closed the coast. By now the batteries along the tideline had been withdrawn and there was sufficient water over the shoals for the bigger frigates to move in after the sloops and gun-brigs.
At noon Antigone came within range of the batteries and Drinkwater opened fire. After the weeks of aimless cruising, the stench of powder and the trembling of the decks beneath the recoiling carriages was music in the ears of Antigone’s crew.
Their insolence was met by a storm of fire from the shore; it seemed that everywhere the ground was level the French had cannon. The practical necessity of having to tack offshore in the northerly wind allowed them to draw breath and inspect the ship for damage. There was little enough. A few holes in the sails and a bruised topgallant mast. Astern of them the gun-brigs and sloops were snapping around the two or three luggers that were trying to work offshore. The flood tide swept them northwards and, off Ambleteuse, Drinkwater gave orders to wear ship.
‘Brace in the spanker there! Brace in the after-yards! Up helm!’ The after-canvas lost its power to drive the frigate as Drinkwater turned her south.
‘Square the headyards! Steady . . . steady as she goes!’
‘Steady as she goes, sir.’
‘Square the after-yards!’
Antigone steadied on her new course, standing south under her three topsails, running before the wind inside the shoals and parallel with the coast. It wanted an hour before high water but here the tide ran north for several hours yet and they could balance wind and tide, checking the ship’s southward progress against the tide, and thus wreak as much havoc as they possibly could while the smoke from their own guns hung over their deck masking them from the enemy. The motion of the deck eased considerably.
‘Mr Rogers! Shift over the starbowlines to assist at the larboard batteries. Every gun-captain to choose his target and fire as at a mark, make due allowance for elevation and roll. You may open fire!’
Drinkwater stared out to larboard. They were a mile from the cliffs at Raventhun and suddenly spouts of water rose on their beam. Drinkwater levelled his glass.
‘Mr Gillespy!’
‘Sir?’
‘D’you see that square shape over there, where the ground falls away?’
The boy nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘That’s Ambleteuse fort. Be so kind as to point it out to Mr Rogers so that he may direct the guns.’
The little estuary that formed the harbour opened up on their beam as Antigone exchanged shot with the fort. Within the harbour they could see quite clearly a mass of rafted barges crammed with soldiers, rocking dangerously as the sharp waves drove in amongst them.
A shower of splinters sprouted abruptly from the rail where a ball struck home and more holes appeared in the topsails. Amidships the launch was hit by three shot within as many minutes and then they were passing out of range of the fort’s embrasures. Rogers was leaping up and down from gun to gun, exhorting his men and swearing viciously at them when their aim failed. As the land rose again a battery of horse artillery could be seen dashing at the gallop along the cliff. Suddenly Drinkwater saw the officer leading the troop fling up his hand and the gunners rein in their horses.
‘Mr Rogers! See there!’ Rogers narrowed his eyes and stared through the smoke that cleared slowly in the following wind. Then comprehension struck him and he leant over the nearest gun and aimed it personally. The Frenchmen had got their cannon unlimbered and were slewing them round. They were shining brass cannon, field pieces of 8- or 9-pound calibre, Drinkwater estimated, and they were ready loaded. He saw white smoke flash from an almost simultaneous volley from the five guns and a second later the shot whistled overhead, carrying off the starboard quarter-boat davits and dumping the boat in the sea alongside, where it trailed in its falls amongst the broken baulks of timber.
Amidships Rogers was howling with rage as his broadside struck flints and chunks of chalk from the cliff a few feet below the edge. But his next shots landed among the artillerymen and they had the satisfaction of seeing the battery limbered up amid frantic cheers from the gunners amidships.
‘We’re too close inshore, sir. Bottom’s shoaling.’ Drinkwater turned to the ever-dutiful Hill who, while this fairground game was in progress, attended to the navigation of the ship.
‘Bring her a point to starboard then.’
They were abeam of Wimereux now. Here too, there was a fort on the rocks at the water’s edge, and below the fort two of the French invasion craft were stranded and going to pieces under the white of breakers. Drinkwater was suddenly aware that the cloud of powder smoke that rolled slowly ahead of the ship was obscuring his view. ‘Cease fire! Cease fire!’
The smoke cleared with maddening slowness, but gradually it seemed to lift aside like a theatrical guaze, revealing a sight of confusion such as their own cannon could not achieve. They were less than two miles from Boulogne now, and under the cliffs and along the breakwaters of the harbour more than a dozen of the invasion barges lay wrecked with the sea breaking over them. Their shattered masts had fallen over their sides and men could be seen in the water around them.
They had a brief glimpse into the harbour as they crossed the entrance, a brief glimpse of chaos. It seemed as though soldiers were everywhere, moving like ants across the landscape. Yet, as Antigone crossed the narrow opening the guns of Boulogne were briefly silent, their servers witnesses of the drowning of over a thousand of their comrades. In this hiatus Antigone passed by, her own men standing at their guns, staring at the waves breaking viciously over rocking and overloaded craft, at men catching their balance, falling and drowning.
‘I think there’s the reason for the activity, sir,’ said Fraser pointing above the town. ‘I’ll wager that’s the Emperor himself.’
Drinkwater swung his glass and levelled it where Fraser pointed. Into the circle of the lens came an unforgettable image of a man in a grey coat, sitting on a white horse and wearing a large black tricorne hat. The man had a glass to his eye and was staring directly at the British frigate as it swept past him. As he lowered his own glass, Drinkwater could just make out the blur of Napoleon’s face turning to one of his suite behind him.
‘Napoleon Bonaparte, Emperor o’ the French,’ muttered Fraser beside him. ‘He looks a wee bit like Don Quixote . . . Don Quixote de la Manche . . .’
Fraser’s pun was lost in the roar of the batteries of Boulogne as they reopened their fire upon the insolent British frigate. Shot screamed all round them. Hill was demanding they haul fur
ther offshore and Rogers was asking for permission to re-engage. He nodded at both officers.
‘Very well, gentlemen, if you would be so kind.’ He turned for a final look at the man on the white horse, but he had vanished, obscured by the glittering train of his staff as they galloped away. ‘The gale has done our work for us,’ he muttered to himself, ‘for the time being.’
Chapter 8
July–August 1804
Stalemate
‘Will you damned lubbers put your backs into it and pull!’
Midshipman Lord Walmsley surveyed the launch’s crew with amiable contempt and waved a scented handkerchief under his nose. He stood in the stern sheets of the big boat in breeches and shirt, trying to combat the airless heat of the day and urge his oarsmen to more strenuous efforts. Out on either beam Midshipmen Dutfield and Wickham each had one of the quarter-boats and all three were tethered to the Antigone. At the ends of their towropes the boats slewed and splashed, each oarsman dipping his oar into the ripples of his last stroke, so that their efforts seemed utterly pointless. The enemy lugger after which they were struggling lay on the distant horizon.
Walmsley regarded his companion with a superior amusement. Sitting with his little hand on the big tiller was Gillespy, supposedly under Walmsley’s tutoring and utterly unable to exhort the men.
‘It is essential, Gillespy, to encourage greater effort from these fellows,’ his lordship lectured, indicating the sun-burnt faces that puffed and grunted, two to a thwart along the length of the launch. ‘You can’t do it by squeaking at ’em and you can’t do it by asking them. You have to bellow at the damned knaves. Call ’em poxy laggards, lazy land-lubbing scum; then they get so God-damned angry that they pull those bloody oar looms harder. Don’t you see? Eh?’
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