Invasion

by Julian Stockwin

  Caught up with the spectacle Kydd’s attention was skywards—but a muttered warning from the marchioness brought his eyes down. To his astonishment all conversation suddenly ceased. From his left the lords and ladies faced the river and were taken one by one in deep obeisance, held motionless.

  “The King, you fool!” his companion hissed from the depths of her curtsy. Kydd dropped hastily to one knee, too flustered to recall the details of the elaborate court bow. Head still bowed, he tried to glimpse the royal barge in progress. It approached slowly and majestically, and then, by the sharp flash of firework clusters, Kydd caught sight of the person of his sovereign and liege lord, His Britannic Majesty, King George III of Great Britain and Ireland.

  CHAPTER 4

  “. . . AND TWO IN IRONS on account of disagreements with the soldiery ashore.” The first lieutenant finished his report, visibly relieved that Kydd had returned. The crew had been restless, keyed up to play a leading part in a desperate resistance to Napoleon’s legions. Instead, they had been idle in Teazer, anchored all week in the Downs.

  “Very well, Mr. Hallum.”

  “Er, and we’re to hang out a signal immediately you’re back on board.”

  “Make it so, if y’ please.”

  Kydd lost no time in going below to get out of his dusty travelling clothes and into his comfortable sea rig. Monarch did not bear her commander-in-chief’s flag indicating Keith was aboard his flagship so he had no need to report. It would give him time to—

  “Mr. Hallum’s compliments, sir, an’ boat putting off from Actaeon, ” an eager midshipman blurted at the door.

  Kydd knew he would not have been disturbed unless the boat was heading for Teazer and bore someone of significance.

  He lost no time in appearing on deck and watched while the gig threaded expertly towards them through the anchored vessels, her ensign at the transom indicating a king’s officer aboard.

  “Boat ahoy!” Poulden’s challenge was answered immediately from the gig. “Actaeon!”

  “Mr. Purchet!” roared Kydd, for this meant it was the captain of the thirty-eight-gun frigate and, as such, he must be piped aboard by the boatswain.

  “Charles Savery, sir,” the man introduced himself, after punctiliously saluting Teazer’s quarterdeck. “If we could repair to your cabin . . . ?”

  There, he looked about appreciatively at the quality of the appointments. “Then you’ve done well in the article of prize-money?” he said equably.

  “I’ve been fortunate enough, sir,” Kydd replied cautiously, aware that his appearance was not best suited to greeting a senior post-captain.

  Savery gave a dry smile. “I’m here on behalf of Admiral Keith to enquire your readiness, he being detained on another matter.” The man was large in Teazer’s neat little cabin but his round, jovial features were reassuring.

  “Sir.”

  “He particularly wishes to assure himself that you are in no doubt concerning the operational details of the Downs command. I take it that you have been well informed at the Admiralty of the strategical objectives?”

  “I have, sir—and I will confess, t’ me it’s been a caution to learn what it is that faces us.”

  “Yes, as it would to most, I’d agree. However, to details. You know the strength of Admiral Keith’s command?”

  “Sir. It was told to me as six o’-the-line, thirty-two frigates and some hundred or more sloops.”

  “Quite so. You should understand that the sail-of-the-line are old and unseaworthy, each moored permanently to defend estuaries and therefore unavailable to us. The frigates and sloops you will find anywhere from Selsey in the Channel all the way up the east coast to Scotland, and of those to stand directly against Bonaparte’s invasion we are disposed in two divisions.

  “One, to defend the Channel coast of England, the other before the French coast. Of the latter we are again of two forces: the first, those sloops and cutters in constant warfare against the enemy flotillas, the other in the form of two more powerful flying squadrons based here at a moment’s notice to sail. Your orders, which I have, attach you to the one commanded by myself.

  “Both squadrons have the same vital imperative: to harass the invasion craft by any means, clamping a hold on the harbours up and down the enemy coast to prevent their leaving and concentrating in overwhelming numbers at the main invasion ports. I have to remind you that there is a deeper duty, Mr. Kydd, which is to immediately apprise the commander-in-chief of any intelligence that bears on the deployment and motions of the invasion fleets.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  “And especially should they sail on their enterprise. Neither ship nor man should be spared in the need to raise the alarm.”

  “May I know, sir, what’s t’ be our action here consequent on receiving this?”

  “The first intelligence of an invasion fleet at sea is to be conveyed to Deal. There, the shutter telegraph will have the news to the Admiralty in ten minutes. At the same time we have General Craig’s flags. These are a chain of posts on church steeples and similar that constantly fly a white flag. Receiving word of an invasion, they will be replaced by a red, which will be the signal to loose the messengers, picked men whose duty it is to set forth on horseback, fly inland and raise the alarm. At night we shall have beacons of furze faggots on hilltops as will instantly call the volunteers to arms and set in motion the evacuation plans—but the details of that we can leave to the military.”

  “Sir.”

  “To return to our own operations. You’re to maintain at all times sea and ordnance stores conformable to a two-hour notice to sail, and when at alert, a watch of the hands closed up at stations for unmooring, yourself and principal officers on board.”

  “At alert, sir?”

  “Wind and tide favourable for a sortie, an intelligence that Bonaparte is contemplating a descent. The signal tower hangs out a red warning pennant with a gun—you’ll see all this in the orders.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  “To the squadron instructions. You’ll observe that there’s little enough on manoeuvres and signals. This is because when we shall be called upon for service it will of a surety be a pell-mell action as will not be of a character to allow the forming of line and so forth.”

  Savery spoke calmly, but there was no mistaking the icy determination. “As well, of course, we are all of different sailing qualities and in this I will be clear. At an alarm, the duty of every captain is to crowd on sail as best he might to close with the enemy, not an instant’s delay. How this is achieved is of secondary consideration.”

  “Sir.”

  “We are all of one band and must rely on each other—in this you will see each must trust the other in the prime cause. No signals, no permissions, no hesitation. Lay yourself alongside an enemy and you will have fulfilled your duty, sir.”

  It was a level of trust in a commander that Kydd had never encountered before: to rely implicitly on a subordinate’s tactical judgement, seamanship and brute courage without issuing a direct order, this was what it was to be a sea officer of such a supremely professional navy. “Aye aye, sir,” Kydd responded. “You may rely on Teazer and her company.”

  “Very well. Do complete your stores and, as of noon tomorrow, consider yourself under orders. Er, and it would be my pleasure to see you at our little gathering in the Three Kings at seven tonight. You’ll find some of the other captains of the flying squadron there and they’ll be pleased to meet you.”

  In the early afternoon Kydd went ashore with the purser and Renzi. He wanted to inspect the capability of the King’s Naval Yard in Deal and also to see something of the town.

  He had read the orders. Keith’s were straightforward and to the point, with no duty explicit other than the defence of the realm in so far as it meant harrying the enemy by every means possible. The usual commander-in-chief’s Fighting Instructions were almost nonexistent, confirming Savery’s earlier comments that a grand fleet action was not likely�
�for the moment.

  Savery’s orders, too, were sparse, emphasising individual initiative and deprecating caution but with the proviso that the preservation of his ship was a central concern for every captain. Throw himself at the enemy or hold back: it would be Kydd’s decision. Kydd realised that Keith’s constant fear would be that his forces would be so whittled down by taking the war to the enemy shore that at a sudden invasion breakout they would prove of insufficient numbers.

  It was a warm, sunny afternoon and, with the breezy north-westerly a foul wind on the French coast, there was little likelihood of an alert. Kydd walked quietly with the other two to the King’s Naval Yard, letting the character of the place seep in.

  Deal was a curious place, a town at a seemingly random position along a lengthy stretch of flat shoreline, nestled right up to a shingle beach. It was said to be one of the biggest ports in England—yet it had no harbour.

  But there were reasons for its existence there: the lethal Goodwin Sands offshore were also a barrier to Channel storms and the ships that gathered in its embrace, waiting for a fair wind, needed provisions, stores and chandlery. Passengers favoured boarding their ships at Deal, thereby avoiding the tedious river trip to London. With naval forces to support in addition, the town was lively and prosperous.

  The King’s Naval Yard at one end of the waterfront was impressive, with sawpits, smith’s shops, sail lofts and the like. A ship could be victualled for an entire ocean voyage from the brewhouses, compendious storehouses and the bakery producing vast quantities of ship’s biscuits. Yet without a harbour—no quays, jetties or wharfs—tons of stores, masts and yards, weighty lengths of new-spun cordage, all had to be taken out to the ships in boats.

  This meant that the heavy craft must be manhandled down to the water over the steep shingle, loaded and, after delivery, heaved back up again. At the yard there were eight slipways, oaken balks settled well in with a massive capstan at the top of each. Kydd watched as a three-ton frigate launch was hauled up for repair. Even with thirty men at the capstan and others steadying the boat it was a hard grind.

  Their business concluded, the Teazers returned to their ship. Kydd knew he had paperwork to deal with but felt restless. He went to the shrouds and gazed out across the sparkling sea to the hard, clean line of the horizon where the distant sombre headlands of France were stark and clear.

  There was now no doubt: the gathering storm that was about to break on England could be stopped by only one agency, the Royal Navy. Teazer was at the cutting edge, the furthest forward she could be on the field of battle. And Kydd was her captain.

  “Ah, Mr. Kydd, come meet this merry band of mariners!” Savery said heartily, stepping back from the fireplace. A half-dozen officers looked at him inquisitively. “Commander Kydd is new-joined in Teazer, brig-sloop, from the Channel Islands,” he boomed. “Claims he wanted a more interesting station.”

  There were murmurs of welcome and a shuffling to allow him a sight of the fire.

  “This is Commander Dyer, of Falcon, ship-sloop.”

  A cautious-looking older officer nodded.

  “And L’tenant Keane, Locust, gun-brig . . .”

  The cheerful, red-faced young man winked at him playfully.

  “L’tenant Mills out of Bruiser, gun-brig.”

  The big man grunted defensively. “Service?”

  “Oh, North American station t’ begin with,” Kydd said amiably. There would apparently be no standing on ceremony in this company. “The Med,” he added. “And the Nile,” he finished lightly.

  There was a general stir. “Doubt we can find anything to top that, Mr. Kydd,” said Keane, respectfully.

  “I’m not so sure,” Mills said forcefully. “Boney’s down on ’em hard if they don’t put on a brave show defendin’ afore their own soldiers on the shore. Why, in that mill we has last month off Calais . . .” The talk ebbed and flowed.

  The Three Kings, like so much of Deal, was on the edge of the waterfront, its entrance set at right angles for shelter. The naval officers favoured rooms to seaward that looked out over the Downs and, in the strengthening north-westerly, the windows shook and rattled.

  Savery glanced out to sea at the miles of bobbing ships and white caps, then suggested, “Cards, gentlemen? No alarums to be expected in this blow.” There was a general move to the table. “I do hope the claret is agreeable to your taste, Mr. Kydd,” he said, as the cards were cut. “For our Friday gathering we make it a point that the enemy provides for our wine. Out of a prize, of course.”

  Kydd did not shine at cards; his heart was not in it. His memory refused to take note of which had been successively dealt and he was regularly trumped. In this company, however, it was no chore, and gave him an insight into the personalities of those with whom he would go to war.

  Savery was cool, precise and deadly, clearly enjoying the exercise. Keane was impulsive but ingenious, while Mills was stolid but infinitely patient, marshalling his assets until he could bang down his winning hand with a colourful oath.

  It was an experience more pleasurable than he had expected: there was relief to be had from sharing anxieties and fears with those who were in the same position as him, and took strength from the sense of brotherliness in adversity, of fellow warriors awaiting the dawn.

  The following morning the wind still held to a north-westerly but had moderated somewhat. There was no alert at the semaphore tower and Kydd held court with Hallum and Purchet over how best to bring the ship to a knife edge of readiness.

  It was the age-old problem in war; men raised to a nervous pitch of skill and expectations, then forced to idleness while waiting for the enemy’s next move. Traditional make-work employment in harbour centred around cleaning and bright-work, but nothing could be more calculated to dull the spirit; more warlike tasks, such as attending to the gunner’s store had long since been completed to perfection. With a fine edge on every cutlass, pistols and muskets flinted and tested, shot brought to an impressive roundness by careful chipping with a rust-hammer, there was little more that Kydd could think of to do.

  Poulden knocked tentatively at the door. “Not sure as what t’ do with this’n,” he said, holding out a paper. “Mr. Calloway says ye’d be interested.”

  Kydd read it and chuckled. “Why, this is just the medicine for the harbour mullygrubs! Gentlemen, your attention, please . . .” Lieutenant Keane and HM gun-brig Locust were issuing a challenge-at-arms to HMS Teazer for the honour of hoisting a “Cock of the Downs” for the better ship.

  Locust lay a quarter of a mile to the eastward, moored, like Teazer, head to wind. Keane was proposing a contest of boarding—the very proficiency that would be so needed in the near future. Kydd read aloud the challenge: it was to be undertaken from an eight-oared pinnace, the only boat held in common by both sides, the object being to haul down the other’s colours in the face of various unspecified discouragements, then return.

  There were some interesting provisos. Boarders were to be fully “armed” and might not enter at any point between the quarterdeck and fo’c’sle. The winners would be the first to return to their own ship and triumphantly re-hoist their own colours to the masthead. And, to prevent later recrimination, the respective captains would lead the boarders.

  “An impudence!” spluttered Hallum. “They can’t just—”

  But Kydd had made up his mind and turned to Poulden. “Mr. Calloway is t’ hoist Locust’s pennant over the ‘affirmative,’ if y’ please,” he said firmly.

  It was well conceived. Distance to cover under oars was equal, as were the number of men carried in the boats. Bearing arms and coming aboard only over the bow or stern meant a boarding under realistic conditions and discouragements would add the necessary incentive to haste.

  Recalling Keane’s confidence, Kydd grinned. He would be leading the Teazers and it was fairly certain that the young officer had not heard of his own years as a young and agile seaman . . .

  With boats in the water in deference t
o Locust’s lack of the new-fangled davits, it needed only the signal to start. Actaeon’s gig arrived and Savery, suitably grave as befitted an official umpire, proceeded to an inspection of Teazer’s boarders.

  “A fine body of men, Captain!” he pronounced. They were not the words Kydd would have used of his crew of desperadoes in every kind of piratical rig clutching their wooden “cutlasses” and grinning at each other in anticipation.

  “Into your boats!”

  Kydd settled at the tiller and tried not to beam back at Stirk, gunner’s mate, and a seaman who went back to his earliest time at sea. Ready with his grapnel in the bows he snapped. “Toss oars!” In obedience to the “rules” oars were thumped down and held vertically as a sign that the boarders were standing by. Savery sighted over at Locust: their boat was in similar readiness.

  “Fire!” A swivel gun manned up in the maintop cracked out but the sound was almost drowned in the storm of cheering from the spectators. Kydd’s urgent roar sent oars thudding down between the thole pins and the boat slewing round to leap ahead, straight as an arrow, for the trim gun-brig.

  The Locusts were in view almost at once, her captain crouched, urging on his crew like a lunatic and coming on at a dismaying rate. It was not Kydd’s way to shout at men doing their best but he quickly found himself leaning forward and berating them as lubbardly old women and a hopeless parcel of gib-faced mumpers. The resulting expressions of delight seemed to indicate it might have been expected.

  As the pinnaces passed each other halfway, yells of derision were hurled across. Keane stood precariously and bowed solemnly to Kydd, who couldn’t think what to do other than doff his hat in reply. Then it was the final stretch, the seamen panting and gasping with the brutal effort.

  Defenders were spaced evenly along the decks of Locust and doing suspicious things with sacks. Like Teazer, the gun-brig was flush-decked with a continuous deck-line. Her fo’c’sle was rounded and therefore without the usual beakhead with its useful climbing-aboard points. It had been agreed that boarding nettings would not be deployed as inviting damage to His Majesty’s sea stores, so it was a choice between bluff bow or sturdy transom.