Kydd made up his mind and went for the stern. Instantly there was a frantic rush along the decks of the brig to take up position to repel boarders. He snatched a glance behind: the Locusts were heading at breakneck speed directly for Teazer’s bows and there was the same mad scramble forward to meet the boarding. He smiled wickedly—it would be a valiant crew who made it to that hostile deck.
Just a few hundred yards away from their goal he weighed up the angles and distances. With Locust’s protruding rudder stock, a side-to approach allowing simultaneous exit from the boat would not be possible. Better a head-on one, with Stirk leading the charge up and over that plain sternwork.
They neared, and he spotted defenders hunkered behind the low bulwark. Just before they made ready Kydd twisted to look behind. At the last minute Keane had put over the tiller, shooting under the bowsprit and at full tilt sped down the length of the ship to end up under Teazer’s more ornate stern. Grapnels flew up in a perfectly timed—
“Sir!” Poulden’s anxious cry brought him back— Locust’s humble stern with its two small windows, was looming above them but before he could act the boat drove head on into her timbers with a rending thump, sending the oarsmen down in a tangle of legs and bodies.
“Go!” Kydd cried hoarsely, from the bottom-boards but Stirk had already hurled his grapnel and swarmed up the line with a roar. He took the contents of a pail of galley slops full in the face, then bilge-water, flour, slush and the like rained down. Stirk let out a howl, but quickly recovered and fought his way slowly up through the deluge. The Teazers were now spurred on with the prospect of revenge, and as Stirk disappeared over the bulwarks he was followed by the rest, with Kydd fighting through the vile onslaught to join him.
On the neat little after deck the Locusts were waiting with their wooden cutlasses at point, except one sailor who was taken helpless with laughter at the sight of the enemy. It was too much for Stirk who threw himself at the man and, with a show of strength, wrestled him to the side and up-ended him bodily into the sea.
The decks resounded to fierce snarls and the sharp clik-clok of wooden combat, but the Teazers’ blood was up and it didn’t take long to fight through to the mainmast halliards. Guarded by a ring of vengeful seamen, Kydd rapidly hauled down their colours.
Returning to the boat, some jumped headlong into the early summer sea to rid themselves of their ordure, then hauled themselves dripping over the gunwale. “Move y’selves,” Kydd urged, taking the tiller again.
They stretched out manfully. The contest would not be over until their own colours had been restored. The Locusts, however, were already two-thirds back, well on their way to victory.
When the Locusts drew abreast Kydd’s boat to pass, more taunts were thrown. Keane stood up in the boat and bowed low. It was galling to be treated this way again—Kydd spotted a Locust flour-bomb among the mess in the bilge, and as Keane straightened his posture, he received it full on the chest.
It burst with a satisfying white explosion and the young man teetered and fell, bringing down his stroke oar and causing the next man to catch a crab, then lose his oar. The boat came to a stop in hopeless confusion while the Teazers savagely saw their chance and threw themselves at their oars.
It was sweet victory! Captain Savery shook his head at the sight of the seamen who heaved themselves aboard but allowed the Teazers triumphantly to haul their colours aloft once more. A crestfallen Keane was summoned back to witness the award to the victor.
“Sir—sir, I . . .”
“Yes, Mr. Keane?”
“It wasn’t fair!”
Kydd couldn’t help it. “Fortunes of war, old trout!” he rumbled smugly.
Savery held up the trophy, a handsome red-painted mast vane in the shape of a cockerel. “Cock o’ the Downs. And this I award to the rightful winner with the strict injunction: in hoc signis vincit! ”
“Under this sign go ye forth and conquer!” murmured Renzi, next to Kydd.
With a satisfied smile Kydd stepped forward to accept the prize.
“Not you, sir!” Savery said, in mock horror, snatching away the vane. “The Locusts are declared victors this day. Come forward and be honoured, Mr. Keane.”
“The Locusts sir?” Kydd spluttered. “I don’t understand—we were—”
“Mr. Kydd! I have above a hundred witnesses who will swear they saw you resume hostilities on your opponent even while your colours were struck. This is not to be borne, sir. Yet I dare to say you will be seeking a rencontre at another date . . .”
The north-westerly eased and veered overnight leaving a fine summer morning to spread its beneficence abroad. But at eleven, as the wind passed into its easterly quadrant, there was the thump of a gun and the red flag of the alert was hoisted. The wind was favourable for the French.
A hurried muster revealed the absence of the gunner and his mate at the King’s Naval Yard and a victualling party at the storehouse. Both midshipmen were dispatched with trusties to find them post-haste and Teazer moved to sea watches.
Before noon her complement was entire and the ship ready for sea; lying to a ready-buoyed single anchor, sails bent on to yards, her broadsides primed and waiting. Kydd’s eyes turned to Actaeon . The first sign of an alarm might be the sudden blossoming of a signal at the halliards and a warning gun. Then the flying squadron would be streaming instantly to sea.
But the day wore on. Was this to be their entire existence, to lie waiting at a split yarn? It could be days, weeks, before the French made their move to sea.
At sunset the men were piped to supper; at least, here they would eat well, fresh greens and regular meat from the garden county of Kent. And Renzi was clearly content with his lot: little ship’s business to do and a stand of books to devour that would not disgrace a bookseller.
Kydd vowed to find fresh ways to keep the men occupied and in fighting trim, but for now he turned in early and drifted into sleep.
“Sir! Mr. Kydd, sir!” called an anxious Moyes. As mate-of-the-watch he was confronted with the old naval dilemma. He had been sent to wake an officer, but if he shook him this might in theory be construed as laying hands on a superior, with all the dire penalties that the act entailed.
Kydd propped himself up in his cot and rubbed his eyes. Moyes was streaming water from his oilskins; it must be dirty weather topside, although the ship’s gentle motion did not indicate a blow. “What o’clock is it?”
“Middle watch, sir, an’ Actaeon is hanging out three lights with a gun.”
All captains!
“I’ll be up directly. Rouse up a boat’s crew and have the gig in the water immediately.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Moyes disappeared, considerately leaving his lanthorn, and Kydd thudded to the deck, shaking his head to clear it of sleep.
“Cast off!” he growled, after they had entered the boat. He had only a sea-coat over his nightdress and maddeningly the light rain trickling off his hat found several ways to penetrate to his sleep-warm body. But he knew there could only be one reason for the urgent summons.
The boat hooked on and he heaved himself up the rain-slick side of the frigate, noting bustle through the open gunports. The ship was fully awake.
Savery lost no time. When all were assembled he snapped, “An alarm, gentlemen. Sir Sidney Smith has sent urgent word of an invasion flotilla slipping out from Ostend, taking advantage of this nor’-easterly and thinking to join with others in Calais and Boulogne. It must be stopped.”
There were grave expressions on the faces of those who stood about, wet and drooping and in all manner of strange night attire.
“This is no small force. It numbers over sixty craft and, being a joint Dutch force, is defended by the Jonkheer ver Blaeu, who, I might remind you, learned his trade under de Winter at Camperdown.”
Kydd would never forget the ferocious scenes of combat that day—the British had been victorious, but the Dutch had fought like demons showing the old spirit that had seen them lay w
aste in the Medway the century before.
“They are even now at sea, proceeding down the coast towards Dunkirk, Ambleteuse—who knows? It seems to be an attempt to overwhelm us with numbers and I expect a stiff fight. There will be no help from Sir Sidney as he is heavily engaged, but he offers to break off and come to our aid if requested.” His demeanour gave little doubt as to the likelihood of this.
“Have we reports of the type of vessel we’re likely to find, sir?” said Keane brightly.
“At least thirty, forty gun-vessels—anything from your chaloupe canonnière to a full-rigged prame to be expected, I believe. Your duty is the same in any case. Now, to business. The squadron will sail without delay with the goal of an intercept off the French coast at dawn—”
“We sail in darkness?” Dyer said, in a tone of disbelief. “The Goodwins are—”
“In these winds we cannot sail north or hazard the Gull passage, therefore we shall go south-about to make our offing. I would have thought it reasonable to stand in that direction for the lights of St. Margaret’s Bay and thence haul your wind for France?” Savery said irritably.
Kydd’s mind raced. If there were clear night waters rather than some eighty or so ships at anchor through which they must pass . . . If the few lights of Deal showing at three in the morning were as well loyally shining at the small hamlet in the great cliffs . . .
“I shall expect the squadron to make rendezvous to the nor’-east of Dunkirk in the morning,” Savery continued. “Come, come, gentlemen, there’s not a moment to lose.” The other business was dispatched rapidly and Kydd returned to find his ship in a scurry of activity.
Teazer slipped her anchor within the hour, the night breeze taking her at some speed through a world of dimly bobbing lights in the pitch darkness with the occasional bulking mass looming of an unlighted vessel.
It was vital not to put the helm over for the reach to seaward too early, for this would bring them to an unpleasant acquaintance with the deadly sands. If left too long, though, it would take more time to beat back up the French coast. And every seaman knew that the slower and more cautious the progress, the more sluggish would be the response at the helm.
Less than an hour passed but it seemed like a lifetime before Kydd felt able to make the move. Teazer heeled as she took the wind abeam and struck out into the Channel darkness. It would be entirely by dead-reckoning: a larboard tack for long enough to get them past mid-Channel then a stay about to starboard to put them to weather of the rendezvous when dawn broke.
Log-line, careful sail trim and much discussion of current sets and leeway at different points of sailing: seamanship of the first order was demanded. They were comfortably to seaward of Dunkirk when the first tentative shafts of light from the east promised a fine day to come.
One by one sail was sighted and by full day the squadron was in position: Actaeon with the sloops Teazer, Bruiser, Falcon and Gallant, with the gun-brigs Locust, Starling, Plumper and others. It seemed a pitiful number to throw before such odds.
They stayed in deep water with the frigate. Then a cutter came racing downwind with “enemy in sight” fluttering urgently from her halliards in the morning breeze. From directly in the wind’s eye a handful of low sails appeared out of the haze. More and more came into sight, then still more, until it seemed impossible there was room for others.
Kydd was conscious of what the chart had shown about the coast—endless hard sandbanks strung out to parallel the shore as if to ward off marauders, a fearsome threat to any trespasser. There was no point in beating towards. It would be better to let them come, then fall on them somewhere off Dunkirk. He raised his telescope and scanned the oncoming armada. Every kind of rig was there, luggers of all descriptions, brigs, even fully ship-rigged vessels, advancing inexorably in a vast swarm of sail.
Then he saw the invasion craft he had been told about: the long and low péniche under a single lugsail, the Swedish designed shallow-draught crache feu type that carried frigate-sized twenty-four-pounders on slides and the various chaloupes canonnières, which, while smaller than Teazer, were armed with guns of much larger calibre.
The transports were gathered in the centre, seemingly anything that swam, including many of the Dutch schuyts used in the rivers and shallows of the Netherlands and ideal for close inshore work.
He wondered what the soldiers packing their decks would think of the ships lying in wait for them. They would know them to be the same ships that had cleared the seas of every French battle-fleet sent against them, that had destroyed and captured their ships as they watched impotently from the beach. But now, seeing the crowds of French and Dutch vessels around them and so few English ones ahead, there could only be one answer: contempt, and the conviction that in the face of such numbers the English ships would just step aside.
There was no indication of faltering among the leaders of the armada. As Teazer neared, the throng seemed to take on an order of its own, the larger ships assuming seaward positions to shepherd along the lesser, which were sailing as close to the shore as they could.
Kydd swallowed. Now was the time to manoeuvre round and select where he would direct his charge into the enemy. At this angle of the wind it would have to be somewhere off Dunkirk—but would they simply slip away into the port and wait it out?
The first of the vessels was approaching the port entrance: if he did not make his lunge now it might be too late. Along the decks, long closed up for action, his ship’s company looked gravely at him.
“Mr. Kydd, sir?” Dowse said quietly, interrupting his thoughts.
“Um—yes?”
“Sir, it’s my opinion th’ tide’s not going t’ allow us in, without we know th’ ground better.”
“The Frenchy thinks it safe enough.”
“Aye, sir,” the master said patiently. “He’s in a mort deeper water—the Passe de l’Est as goes past th’ entrance. A’tween us an’ them will be y’r Banc du Snouw, Binnen Ratel, all shiftin’ hardpack sand as at this tide-state is shoaling fast.”
Was this why the others in the squadron were still hove to, waiting?
The first enemy vessels reached the harbour’s cramped entrance— and passed it. The wily Dutchman in command had known of the inshore passage and taken full advantage of the wind’s direction being the same as the ebbing tide; in the protection of the offshore sandbanks he was making fast sailing towards his ultimate destination: Calais and Boulogne.
Now there was a chance: once past, they had to leave the protection of the sandbanks, which did not extend any further. And the little haven of Gravelines on the way was near useless on an ebbing tide, so somewhere off the low, endless sand dunes between Dunkirk and Calais, action must be joined.
The sun was high and warm to the skin when the time came. Careful bearings of the tall, four-square tower in the centre of the town told Kydd and the other members of the squadron when the armada was finally clear of the protecting shoals. First away was Locust, her red cockerel brazenly at the mainmast head, with Bruiser and Falcon close behind then Teazer joining the rush in an exhilarating charge straight into the heart of the enemy.
Kydd willed his mind to icy coolness.
The swarm resolved to individuals: the schuyt s or the prame? The first guns opened up but Teazer would hold her fire to make every shot count. The enemy sloops came round to meet them but, surprisingly, showed no inclination to close. Kydd looked back: Actaeon was astern—the biggest threat, she must be their target. He grinned savagely: All the better to allow Teazer to get among the flotilla.
Locust disappeared in a haze of gunsmoke into the very centre and Kydd made up his mind. “We take the schuyt s and draw the big ’uns towards us. Lets the cutters and gun-brigs have a chance.”
Teazer made for a gaggle of four ahead. White splashes kicked up around her. It was small-calibre: the bigger guns they carried must be on crude slides and could not bear on them. Then a vicious whip of bullets all around him showed that they were making up fo
r it with musketry.
Kydd tested the wind once more—fair and brisk on the larboard beam. “Bring us astern o’ the last,” he ordered calmly. The schuyts maintained course, unsure of his intentions, and he was quickly able to reach his position. Swinging round before the wind he tucked in astern of the last, then surged forward to overtake the craft on its shoreward side.
“Fire!” he barked. The forward half of the starboard guns smashed into it. Screams and hoarse shouts came from beyond the choking mass of powder-smoke and then they were up with the second, and the after half of the guns opened up.
The next in line jibbed in fear at what was bearing down on it. Teazer’s helm went over and she plunged between the opening gap to the seaward side and, with a furious spin of the wheel, straightened and passed the next schuyt . The same trick again—but this time it was the unused guns of the larboard side that did the execution, taking the next with the forward guns and the last of the four with the rest.
Beside Kydd, Purchet pounded his fist into his palm. Then, in the hellish noise, Hallum snatched at Kydd’s sleeve and pointed. Looming out of the roiling smoke and appallingly close, a powerful prame as big as a frigate was lunging towards them.
As Teazer passed beyond the schuyts, the prame slewed about parallel to bring its full broadside of twenty-four-pounders to bear—at near point-blank range it would be slaughter, and with Teazer’s guns not yet reloaded they could not fire back.
Kydd agonised as he waited for the eruption—his skin crawled as the moment hung—then suddenly he swung round to look in the other direction. As he suspected, a lumbering transport was to leeward; the prame dared not open up on Teazer while it was in the line of fire.
Light-headed with relief, Kydd tried to think of a way out. They couldn’t stay with the transport for ever. It was hard to concentrate as a chaotic swirl of noise and smoke battered in on his senses but the matter was shortly taken out of his hands. With an avalanche of muffled thuds and a sudden rearing of gunsmoke on the other side of the prame, the ship-sloop Falcon had taken her chance to attack while its attention was on Teazer .
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