The Privateer's Revenge

by Julian Stockwin

  His mind went cold: years of experience told him that the sea state had changed. The tide was now well and truly on the ebb— Queripel’s calculations had been proved inaccurate in these local conditions: they had been counting on an approach with the flood and retreat on the ebb.

  It might already be too late. Renzi’s imagination saw them making desperately for the open sea only to grind to a sickening stop on some tidal bank. “Er, tide’s well on the ebb,” he said, with an edge in his voice.

  “Take this down. A frigate—say a 24—building t’ th’ north, wi’ at least ten flat barges next t’ it.”

  “I do believe we should put about now,” Renzi said pointedly, with an odd half-smile. The piers were near enough that a sentry could be seen looking down on them curiously.

  Renzi tried to catch Stirk’s eye but he was doing something with the lug-yard. “Tom, we have enough as will convince even—”

  “Stand by t’ go about!” Kydd hissed. A coastal brig was coming up fast astern, a marked feather of white at her forefoot and, in her relative size, indescribably menacing. Renzi stood ready with his knife.

  “Lee-oh!”

  The blade severed the bucket rope in one, and at the same time the steering oar dug deeply. Then Renzi understood what Stirk had done: a lugger had to dip the yard round the mast when going about, but he had furtively laid it on the wrong side at the cost of their sailing speed. When they had turned, it was already on the correct side and had gloriously filled, sending the bow seaward.

  Renzi leaped to the main lug and worked furiously on the heavy yard. Distant screams of rage across the water made him look up and he saw the brig bearing down on them, frighteningly close. They had not gathered enough speed to clear its path—and the close-hauled larger vessel hemmed in by shoals clearly would not be able to avoid them.

  Stirk gripped the gunwale and stared in horror at the onrushing ship but Kydd remained immovably at his post. On the brig men were running urgently to the foredeck shouting, gesticulating.

  The ship plunged nearer, its bowsprit spearing the air above them and suddenly it was upon them—but the swash from the bluff bows thrust them aside and they were clear by inches, the barrelling hull towering up and rushing past almost close enough to touch, the noise of her wash sounding like a waterfall. And then it was over, the plain transom receding and men at her taffrail shaking their fists at the lunatic fishermen.

  The old boat gathered way agonisingly slowly, her gear straining. Renzi knew that high above them in the fort their antics were being pointed out and probably puzzled over, especially the odd fact that they were shaping course not along the coast but heading directly out to sea.

  Now all depended on speed. It would not be long before the French woke up to their audacious incursion and then . . .

  The first dismaying sign was the sound of a thin crack high up. Gunsmoke eddied away next to a signal mast at the tip of the headland, clearly to bring attention to a string of flags that had been peremptorily hoisted.

  They stood on doggedly but then a deeper-throated thud sounded and, seconds later, a plume arose between them and the open sea.

  Renzi looked again over the side and saw that anonymous seabed features were becoming visible in the murky water. Then, with a bump and slewing, they came to a halt.

  It was now deadly serious: if they could not get off within minutes they would find themselves left high and dry by the receding tide, easy prey for soldiers cantering up on horses.

  “Over th’ side!” Kydd shouted, leaping over the low gunwale into the water. It was hard, serrated rock underfoot, the striations parallel with the coast. They manhandled the big boat, heaving until their muscles burned. It moved. Then, juddering, it found deeper water and suddenly they were dangling from the gunwale. At the limits of their strength they flung themselves inboard panting, and hauled in on the slatting and banging sails.

  Stirk saw them first. “Be buggered—they’s after us!” he gasped, pointing back to the harbour entrance. One by one gunboats were issuing out. It was now all but over.

  “Sheet in!” Kydd roared. The chasse-marée leaned and showed her breeding, perfectly suited to the shallow waters of the Brittany coast. But it would not be enough against the half-dozen vessels now in fierce pursuit.

  Then quickly it was all over. In obedience to orders, and at the appointed time, HMS Teazer appeared round the headland, her colours flying and guns ablaze.

  CHAPTER 5

  THE LARGE, AIRY UPPER ROOM at Government House, St Peter Port, with sunlight beaming in from tall windows, was ideally suited for a captains’ conference. The commanding officers of His Majesty’s ships in Guernsey Roads sat round the long table with, at the head, in his gold lace and decorations, Admiral Sir James Saumarez. Distinguished at St Vincent and the Nile, victor of Algeciras, he made an imposing figure.

  “Gentlemen.” His grave glance took them all in—Selby, captain of the frigate Cerberus at the foot, with the sloop commanders on each side: Carthew of Scorpion, O’Brien of Harpy, Kydd of Teazer and the rest.

  “I have no need to remind you of the utmost seriousness of our situation with Bonaparte adding daily to his arsenal for his enterprise against England. We have now received intelligence of a most disturbing nature directly affecting this station, concerning the harbour of Granville, which is, as you must be aware, apart from St Malo, the only anchorage worth the name in all the two hundred miles between Cherbourg and Brest.”

  Studied blank looks indicated that this was old news to most.

  Saumarez continued: “It would appear that Granville is being readied to play a major role in the armament and building of invasion barges and support craft, concentrating them there in great numbers—yes, Captain Selby?”

  “Sir.” The frigate captain leaned forward, “But do we have recent intelligence as will—”

  “This last two days Commander Kydd has returned from a reconnaissance of the harbour. By means of remarkable exertions he was able to look into the port directly and make an account of the shipping therein. I have no reason to doubt his information.”

  Selby sent a quick smile of respect to Kydd, who did not acknowledge it.

  “I’ve heard something of this daring, sir,” Carthew interjected, looking pointedly at Kydd, “and I rather feel it would be of interest if we could hear his justification for taking prize a fishing-boat, contrary to the common usages?”

  O’Brien murmured something but Saumarez cut across quickly: “The vessel was not made prize, and was restored immediately afterwards. And I understand the master did not decline the sum that was offered him for the, er, hire of his craft. You should understand Mr Kydd has my entire approbation for the initiative he displayed in this matter.”

  Carthew exchanged a significant glance with the others.

  Saumarez frowned. “And I shall be looking to more of the same from all of you in the very near future.” Heads rose as the implication of his words penetrated.

  “Yes, this meeting is not one about defences, gentlemen. We are to make an assault on Granville.”

  There was stunned silence, then a hubbub of excited talk. If it went forward it would be the first real offensive operation in these waters against the French so far in the war—and the best chance in sight of some form of distinguished action. But Granville? In so formidable a defensive position with forts and a walled town overlooking the harbour? It would take considerable military resources—did Saumarez have these?

  The admiral called the meeting to order and went on, “The essence of my plan is this. The primary objective can only be the invasion craft: I propose to inflict such damage on them that their sailing to join in concentration those readying opposite England’s shores cannot be in contemplation before the winter season is upon us.

  “And by no means may we consider a landing. This leaves us in prospect of a massed boat action, which I can only think will be a bloody affair indeed, and I will not have it. There is, however, one possibility
left us. Bombs.”

  Saumarez paused while his captains took his words in. A bomb-vessel was a specially constructed craft with a huge mortar throwing explosive shells. If it could be manoeuvred into position . . .

  “I have therefore sent for a pair from the Downs Squadron to assist us in the assault. Sulphur and Terror will be joining us, with their tenders, and then we sail against the enemy.”

  There was no mistaking the feeling in the pugnacious growls round the table.

  “With shoal water out beyond cannon fire before Granville, there is limited sea-room and thus our force is constrained. Therefore I am making the following dispositions: I will be shifting my flag to Cerberus frigate from Diomede to close with the coast more nearly and will, of course, be in overall command. The two bombs will also be under my direction and will form the core of the assault. To this end, there will be a force of three sloops and cutters whose sole duty will be the protection of the bomb-vessels.”

  This was a small force to set against the might of the French but if a ship-of-the-line was present it would necessarily be compelled to remain powerless far offshore, and with the bomb-vessels warped close in only smaller craft could keep with them.

  “Under whose command will the covering force be?” Carthew asked. He left unspoken his realisation that any valiant defence of the bombs would certainly be applauded but only the man in command would bear the public credit.

  “For this task I will be asking Commander Kydd,” Saumarez replied levelly.

  “Sir! I must protest!” Carthew said hotly. “This officer has been in these waters only a few weeks and, besides, I feel I must draw your attention to the fact that he is considerably my junior in the list of commanders.”

  “I’m not in the habit of defending my decisions, sir,” snapped the admiral. “However, you will recall that Mr Kydd has had a recent and intimate acquaintance with the object of our expedition and has done nothing to disabuse me of his suitability for the post. He will assume charge and I expect all my captains to support him.”

  Sailing with the early-morning tide the small fleet laid course for the enemy coast—the flagship Cerberus in the van and HMS Teazer immediately following, leading the close-support squadron.

  However, even before Jersey was laid to larboard it was clear that the bomb Terror was unable to stay in the line, her broad, flat-bottomed hull making atrocious leeway in the combined south-south-westerly and strong tidal current. It was essential that she be in position before dark: her mooring arrangements were complex and technical, for it was not the mortar she aimed but the whole ship.

  Her sister Sulphur was delayed in port. There was now every prospect that the assault would fail even before it started and there were bleak looks on every quarterdeck. Later in the afternoon Cerberus backed her topsails and hove-to with Teazer’s pennant and the signal for “come within hail” hoisted.

  Saumarez’s voice sounded through the speaking trumpet, strong and calm. His orders were to go on and anchor before Granville and await the bomb-vessels, which would now necessarily be obliged to conduct a difficult night moor. A council-of-war would be called upon arrival.

  Pointe du Roc was raised by five o’clock, and well before dusk Cerberus let go her bower anchor, a second streamed out by the stern. She settled just outside range of the guns of the fort on the louring heights. The signal for “all captains” was immediately made.

  “As you see, gentlemen, we have set ourselves a challenging task,” Saumarez opened, with a tight smile. “I propose to place the bomb-vessels to seaward of the peninsula. Their fire will overarch and descend into the harbour the other side among the dense-packed shipping with the object of causing general damage and the utmost confusion, for there is nothing that the French might do to prevent it falling among them.” He looked meaningfully at Kydd. “Unless, that is, they are able to make a sally against the bombs.”

  “They’ll not touch ’em, sir—that’s m’ promise.”

  “Good. May I know how you plan to dispose your forces, sir?”

  “Scorpion and Harpy t’ take close station on the bombs, Eling schooner f’r communication and Carteret cutter with Teazer at th’ entrance o’ the harbour t’ bar any who thinks t’ leave.”

  The captain of the schooner was visibly crestfallen and Carthew curled his lip in a barely concealed sneer. “And if there is a concerted attack on any one position?”

  “Red rocket, all vessels attend at the harbour entrance. Blue rocket, t’ fall back on the bombs.”

  “Very well. We lie here until the bomb-vessels reach us, at which point we close with the shore to begin the bombardment, paying particular attention to the state of the tide. If any vessel takes the ground, there will be no help for it—with this tide range there can be no relief.” Saumarez hesitated. “It does occur to me,” he said, in a troubled voice, “that our actions will be alarming in the extreme to the civil populace, living as they do in the town beneath the flight of the shells and in sight of them exploding. Captain Selby, do you take a flag of truce ashore and warn them of what will occur and—”

  “Warn them? Sir! The bombs are now able to approach under cover of darkness and can achieve a fearful surprise and—and—” he spluttered.

  “Nevertheless this is what you will do. Can you not conceive, sir, the mortal dread that must seize every female heart at the sudden thunder of Jove we will unleash? I will remind you that our duty is to make war against soldiers, not children and womenfolk.”

  Terror had touched on a reef, which delayed her progress, and it was not until after midnight that she was reported approaching. In the wan light of a fading moon she was shepherded in.

  Out of the darkness the ghost-like form of a schooner appeared and a voice hailed Teazer . “Compliments from the Flag an’ on account o’ the tide state, Terror is to prepare for an immediate bombardment, an’ desires ye to take position according.”

  Kydd acknowledged; it was a breathtaking assumption that the little bomb-vessel could in the darkness lay out accurately her anchors and springs in readiness—not only that but to contemplate bringing forward the other vessels to their close-in positions and undertake an actual bombardment . . .

  One by one the sloops abandoned the security of their anchors for the invisible urging of the tidal currents and felt cautiously for their appointed positions in the last light of a low moon, well aware of the lethal ramparts of granite beneath their keels.

  The long stone piers by the low moonlight seemed strangely sinister in their stillness as Teazer drew nearer, the small cutter close astern. At a prudent distance she rounded to and awaited developments.

  At two in the morning, the last of the moon disappeared and darkness enfolded the scene, a chuckle of water along the ship’s side the only intrusion into the stillness. Then, suddenly, the night was blasted apart: a blinding sheet of flame erupted, which froze the shadows of ships and the anonymous black heights of the peninsula in stark relief. A fat thud rolled over the water while a red streak drove across the night sky, high and over the huddled town, to descend out of sight on the other side. Then there was another.

  Unseen guns opened up on every side in an eruption of noise, gunflash stabbing from the embrasures of the fort, at gun-towers along the cliffs and even from field-pieces atop the piers. And all in vain. Apart from occasional small splashes out in the darkness there was nothing to show for the chaotic fusillade fired blindly into the night.

  From the bomb-vessel a blazing flash and another two-hundred-pound shell was hurled into the blackness, followed by another. The shallow-draught bomb-vessel pounded away with monotonous horror in the darkness. Teazer’s tense watch on the harbour, however, spotted no rush to escape: the vessels within were evidently taking their chances rather than risk the unknown English warships lying outside in wait for them.

  In the first creeping pre-dawn light, firing ceased and all vessels fell back to their deep-water anchorages, leaving vacant the stretch of water where before the
re had been such warlike activity. From seaward, however, nothing could be seen of the effects of the long bombardment, and at the council-of-war Saumarez looked at his captains gravely. “A good night’s work, I believe,” he said heavily, “yet I feel frustrated. Without certain knowledge of our success I am reluctant to quit the field while there may well be work yet to be done.”

  Selby frowned. “Sir, we’ve pummelled the enemy for nearly four hours continuous. Do you not think that—”

  “And I believe I mentioned we have no intelligence regarding its effectiveness,” Saumarez said testily, and glanced at Kydd.

  “I could not see into th’ inner harbour,” Kydd said, his face drawn.

  “The French are well roused b’ now,” Carthew put in. “They know what to expect an’ they’ll have daylight to prepare.”

  “Y’ want a retreat?” Kydd said tautly. “Sulphur will be up with us this day—we have th’ chance f’r double the fire.”

  “Do you want to return there without clear cause? We don’t know for a fact we have failed, sir,” retorted Carthew.

  “We find out,” Kydd rapped. “Lie at anchor today, an’ this night land a reconnaissance party t’ settle the matter, the bombs t’ await their signal.”

  “A reconnaissance party? Against such odds? Pray who would be the hero you would find to accept this mission?” Carthew enquired silkily.

  Saumarez rubbed his eyes in fatigue. “Gentlemen, this discussion is to no account. In the absence of information I must decide myself if—”

  “I’ll lead the party!” Kydd announced, looking directly at Carthew. “Sir, I’ll be ashore at dusk—and with y’r information b’ midnight.”

  “Mr Kydd,” said Saumarez, weighing his words, “am I to understand you are volunteering to lead a party of reconnaissance yourself? You must understand that in the nature of things this must be regarded in the character of a ‘forlorn hope.’ We are all wanting sleep, Mr Kydd, our judgement necessarily in question. I beg you will reconsider your offer, sir.”