Perilous Shore

by Chris Durbin

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  Meeting Richard Howe was a shock. Holbrooke knew that he was young for such a significant command, but it still came as a surprise. He appeared to be around thirty, and a youthful thirty at that. Holbrooke knew the bare bones of Howe’s career. He’d passed for lieutenant at nineteen and had been made commander almost immediately. He’d been posted less than a year later, still in his twentieth year. It hadn’t slipped Holbrooke’s notice that he could emulate Howe if he was posted in the next six months. And it seemed quite possible. Both men had profited from the promotion opportunities that the war brought, and this one had every prospect of lasting long enough to see Holbrooke a post-captain. Of course, Howe was the second son of an Irish peer, and that helped…

  ‘Captain Holbrooke, how pleasant. I regret that I haven’t had a chance to meet you socially before we dive into business, but time’s a-wasting and we have great deeds to do. Nothing less than to take the war onto French soil!’ Howe jumped up from his chair as though it was suddenly too hot for him and strode across the cabin to greet his guest. Holbrooke had heard of the commodore’s restless energy, but he’d been unprepared for its full impact. Most senior offices affected an air of indifference, a detachment from the hurly-burly of daily affairs. But not Richard Howe.

  There was a chart of the French coast laid out on the dining table, from The Bay of Seine to Ushant, encompassing most of the north of Normandy and all of Brittany’s channel coast. Coloured paper markers had been pinned to some of the principal ports: Le Havre, Cherbourg, Granville, Saint-Malo. That was all that Holbrooke could register at a quick glance before he had to give his attention to Howe.

  ‘We’re going to make a series of descents – Mister Pitt’s term, not mine – on French ports. Put the army ashore, take a port, hold it or sack it and re-embark. What do you think?’

  So that was it! He’d heard that an army was heading for camps on the Isle of Wight. In fact, he’d seen some of the marching columns embarking on transports at Portsmouth. It was a strange place to position an army either for attack or defence unless it was merely to hold them in readiness for an expedition. But what did he think? That was an awkward question from a commodore to a commander. What would his friend and mentor Captain Carlisle say? And what would Chalmers say? Given this opportunity, neither would satisfy themselves with sycophantic platitudes, and neither would start at the bottom.

  ‘It sounds very alluring, sir, but if I may ask, what is the objective? What does Mister Pitt hope that we will gain from this?’

  Howe exchanged a glance with Campbell, whose secret grin hadn’t left his face.

  ‘That’s a very pertinent question, Captain Holbrooke. I can see that we’ll agree very well.’

  Howe paused; one foot perched on the seat of a dining chair.

  ‘No doubt we can do this – if the army is game, that’s a separate question. But why should we? Why indeed? Why not send more ships to the Americas to squash French resistance? Why not the sugar islands, the East Indies or the Guinea Coast? In each of those places a squadron such as the one that I’ve been given could turn the tide of the war, could establish local supremacy and take valuable territory. So why Normandy and Brittany? An excellent question.’

  He turned to his secretary.

  ‘Bring that globe over here would you?’

  It was a medium-sized globe on a carved mahogany stand, the sort of ornament that a well-to-do merchant would have in his drawing room; it would have looked well at Bere Forest House. Somehow it was out of place in the great cabin of a ship-of-the-line; too frivolous, too pretentious, not a serious navigational instrument.

  ‘This has become a global war, a war for ownership of the raw materials of the world and the trade routes that bring them to our industries. It’s not a series of separate campaigns as some would see it, nor can it be addressed by a succession of unconnected decisions: should we defeat the French in North America? do we defend Hanover? can we protect our Caribbean islands?’

  He moved his hand restlessly across the globe, spinning it rapidly to make his points about the nature of the war.

  ‘That’s a small-minded way of looking at it. They’re all linked, and a blow to the French channel ports will reverberate around the continents.’

  Howe stood back. He swept his hand through his wig in a gesture of mental fatigue, his agile mind running far ahead of his tongue.

  ‘Let’s say we strike at Saint-Malo, just for example,’ he said with an odd knowing look. ‘First, we can clear out that privateers’ nest so that the likes of Thurot have no safe base for their operations. That will allow some of our cruisers to be deployed elsewhere and the City will give thanks to the government.’

  He tallied the points on his fingers.

  ‘Second, the French army will have to deploy regular foot regiments, and horse and artillery, to protect their own coast. The coastal militia will never be up to the job. That’ll take the pressure off Prince Ferdinand and ease Hanover’s immediate danger, but you’ll know all about that,’ he added with a wink.

  Holbrooke nodded. It was good to hear that his exploits in Emden were appreciated. After all, he’d secured the surrender of the first European city to fall to Britain’s forces in this war, even if Commodore Holmes was taking all the credit.

  ‘The King, of course, will be delighted that his beloved Hanover is being cherished, and the King’s delight is a public service in itself.’

  Howe paused again, perhaps marshalling his thoughts.

  ‘Third, this blow can be struck without weakening the Channel Squadron, and that is the pivot on which all our sea-power balances. If we should lose superiority in the Channel, the French army will be on the Sussex coast before you can say call out the militia. Much good it would do anyway.’

  Howe evidently shared the prevailing view of the effectiveness of militia regiments, whether French or British.

  ‘And finally, all of this prevents the French from putting their resources into building ships to reinforce North America or protect their trade in the Caribbean. The beauty of this strategy is that it hardly dissipates our naval strength at all, we just use it more effectively. And the soldiers … well with Mister Pitt’s reluctance to send them to the continent, they’re all under-employed anyway.’

  ‘The strategy is sound,’ said Campbell interjecting. ‘Nevertheless, there’s unease after the disaster at Rochefort last year.’

  ‘You know what happened, Holbrooke?’ asked Howe.

  ‘I know that the army chose not to land,’ replied Holbrooke cautiously. The navy’s view of the operation was that the debacle had been the fault of General Mordaunt, who had commanded the land forces. It was probably quite safe to take that line with Howe, but then again, Holbrooke had no idea of Howe’s allegiance; he could be a close relative of the general.

  ‘And the fools on his court-martial board chose to exonerate him! It’s put the blame back on the government and now there’s only lukewarm support for another attempt. You know what that radical Fox has been saying?’

  Holbrooke did know, but he kept his peace.

  ‘Breaking windows with guineas, he calls it, and that kind of trite slogan plays well with the mob. It can be chalked on a cart-tail and its very brevity gives it an air of authenticity. God preserve us from democracy! And you didn’t hear me say that.’

  There was a pause while each man considered the cost of the Rochefort enterprise. A million sterling, it was estimated. Mordaunt was lucky that he hadn’t suffered the same fate as Admiral Byng, who’d been found guilty of not doing his utmost and shot on the quarterdeck of a third rate no great distance from where Essex was anchored.

  ‘Well, our expedition will be closer to home this time. Now, this is of the greatest secrecy; you understand Holbrooke? Not a word to anyone, not your first lieutenant, not your family. Nobody!’

  Holbrooke nodded, his heart beating faster at the prospect of knowing where Pitt’s next blow was to fall and knowing Kestrel’s part in the enterprise.


  Howe moved over to the chart.

  ‘Here,’ he said, pointing to the southern end of the bay that stretched south from Jersey and Guernsey, ‘at Saint-Malo. If we can take the town, then with command of the sea we can hold it as long as we like, a running sore in the French flank. If we can’t, then we can at least clear out the harbour and make the privateers think twice about using it as their base of operations. In either case the French army will be forced to react, to move at least a portion of their power west away from Hanover. Go on, out with it man! I can see your mind whirring!’

  Holbrooke gulped. Did Howe really want his opinion, or was this a trap? Was the commodore angling for an excuse to have him relieved by a more experienced commander? Holbrooke almost responded with a banal comment on what a great stroke it would be for King and country, but he was again saved from such a timorous response by a recollection of what his mentor Captain Carlisle would say, and what his friend Chalmers would advise. Both would say that he must seize his chances, and it wasn’t every day that his opinion was sought by a man who commanded such a squadron as this.

  ‘Benbow tried it ‘93, sir, and the fortifications have been extended since then…’

  ‘Ah! You’re correct, of course. But I don’t intend a direct assault from the sea, and nor does the duke, I hope.’

  Howe saw the questioning look on Holbrooke’s face.

  ‘His Grace the Duke of Marlborough, grandson to the famous one, on his mother’s side. He’s leading the army that we’re to throw ashore at the French,’ said Howe. ‘We’re to work together on this. I lead the force until the army’s ashore, and the duke takes over from there, although of course I must consult with the duke as we select a landing site.’

  Holbrooke was wondering why he was being brought into the commodore’s confidence in this way. Howe must have quite enough to occupy his mind, being sent on a combined operation where his opposite number was a lieutenant-general, in his fifties and an English peer, while Howe himself was merely a commodore – a substantive post-captain when all was said and done – and a mere honourable, the second son of an Irish peer.

  ‘No, we won’t assault Saint-Malo directly. However, there’s one condition that may persuade me to do so. Bring over that chart, would you?’ he called to his secretary.

  ‘You see the approach to Saint-Malo? It’s well defended with batteries all along the channel. As you pointed out, Vauban’s engineering works have been completed since Benbow anchored his bombs within range of the city. This island here,’ he pointed to a speck on the chart just two miles north of Saint-Malo, ‘is La Conchée Fort. It’s a whole island covered, every inch of it, by fortifications. It effectively prevents any seaborne approach from the north and east.’

  Holbrooke could see what he meant. Back in 1693, La Conchée was still under construction and Benbow had easily captured it and bombarded Saint-Malo from the very position that the fort was now covering. Even then, Holbrooke reflected, Benbow had been unable to subdue the city.

  ‘Now, this island a mile or two to the west, Cézambre Island, guards the outer end of the channel. If we could sail up that channel, we could batter the city into submission. There’ve been strange rumours that the guns on Cézambre have been removed. I doubt it, I very much doubt it, but I need confirmation. And as soon as that’s confirmed, I need the more likely landing site to be investigated.’ He moved his finger east. ‘Here at Cancale Bay on the other side of the peninsula, just seven miles from Saint-Malo by land.’

  He looked directly at Holbrooke.

  ‘So those are your orders, Captain Holbrooke. I need certainty as to whether Cézambre is armed. As soon as your sloop is ready for sea – and the yard tells me that will be no more than two weeks from now – you’re to sail for Saint-Malo and then Cancale Bay.’

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  Howe had appeared to lose interest in Holbrooke after that. He fussed around with his charts as Campbell and the secretary filled in the details. It was only as Holbrooke was leaving the cabin that Howe seemed to remember his existence.

  ‘We’ll do well together, you and I, Holbrooke. Two boys let loose with the toybox. We’ll do great things.’

  Campbell laughed as they reached the deck.

  ‘There’s no stopping Richard Howe,’ he said. ‘He sees the absurdity of his position. Barely thirty and in command of all this,’ he said, sweeping the anchorage with a wave of his hand, ‘yet he doesn’t let it weigh upon him. If I may give you some advice: play the same game. You’re very young for your position if you don’t mind the observation. Don’t use that as a reason to keep your head below the hammock-netting. Commodore Howe will never criticise you for pushing yourself forward.’

  Holbrooke was on the verge of a short answer. He was exhausted by the interview and now he suspected he was being patronised. But he stopped himself just in time. Campbell was no competitor, but perhaps an ally in a strange sort of way.

  ‘Let’s stretch our legs for a moment then I have to give you the part of your orders that Mister Howe omitted. Don’t worry,’ he said as he saw the look of concern on Holbrooke’s face, ‘it’s nothing of any great consequence.’

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  ‘Even their lordships learn their lessons, slowly and reluctantly, but eventually when all else has failed they try something new,’ Campbell stated in a loud voice.

  Holbrooke was faintly shocked; not at the sentiment, but at the public utterance. There were half a dozen officers within earshot – this being a crowded flagship – and any one of them could store up those words to fling at their captain in some future dispute.

  ‘You heard about the command arrangements. It’s now quite clear that the army has little to say until they’re on dry land, but that’s just the start of it. There are to be new boats to put them ashore, no more making do with the squadron’s longboats and yawls!’

  Now, this was interesting. Holbrooke had been aware of the weak link in a landing operation: the long, long process of putting the soldiers, their artillery, horses, ammunition and supplies ashore. Ship’s boats just weren’t made for that; they were designed principally for their seaworthiness. Their carrying capacity and ability to land on beaches came a long, long way down in the list of design criteria.

  ‘Last month the Admiralty ordered two examples of launches to be constructed to a navy board design. Thirty-six feet long with a flat bow and a forefoot that cuts back by a fathom or two, so that they can easily run up a sand or shingle beach. I don’t know much more. What I do know is that Mrs Winter’s yard at Deptford Wharf built one of them and she’s reckoned to have lost a good sum of money doing so, the clench-work being so difficult around the bow. Be that as it may, they clearly passed muster, and now all the capable yards have been given orders to build them as fast as they can.’

  Holbrooke had heard rumours of something of this nature. It was supposed to be confidential, but there was little hope of the shipwrights not talking in the taverns.

  ‘And your part in this? If all goes well, you’re going to have orders to test the first of the boats when they’re delivered to Portsmouth.’

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  Dawson kept the oarsmen to a steady pace as they stroked back towards the Sally Port at the southern end of High Street, only a short walk from Holbrooke’s lodgings. The wind had dropped since their outward journey, and the tide had slackened. The clouds had fled away to the east, leaving the Solent sparkling in the sunshine with only the occasional small wavelet slapping against the longboat’s quarter.

  Holbrooke had thought he knew all about commodores in all their variety. After all, he’d served under a good selection of them. There was George Edgcumbe in Minorca, a commodore by courtesy as the peacetime commander-in-chief of the Mediterranean Squadron. Robert Jermy in Wessex was also a commodore by courtesy, but he died of an illness in the Windward Islands. Arthur Forrest commanded three ships-of-the-line and Holbrooke’s frigate at the battle of Cape François, winning a significant victory ov
er the French. Then there was Holmes, a real commodore appointed by the Admiralty to blockade the Weser, Elbe and Ems.

  The rank of commodore was their lordships’ means of side-stepping the unwieldy naval promotion system. It allowed them to place the right people in command sometimes decades earlier than if they had been forced to wait until they hoisted their flags as rear admirals. It meant that they could pluck people like Richard Howe out of the obscurity of the bottom half of the post-captain’s list and place them in control of significant expeditions such as this. Many a senior post-captain and admiral was infuriated by the system that left them on the beach or in minor commands while men much younger than them had all the glory. Yet Holbrooke could see the value of it, and so long as the post-captain’s list was so inflexible and promotion to admiral was on seniority rather than merit, some such system was surely necessary.

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  4: The Flatboats

  Wednesday, Twenty-Fourth of May 1758.

  Kestrel’s Longboat, Fareham Creek.

  The muddy waters of Fareham Creek looked forbidding on this dark, overcast morning. There had been heavy rain overnight and the Wallington Brook had flooded the area above the tidal mills, bringing down the forest litter in great rafts of old leaves, branches and the remnants of last year’s bracken. It was the bottom of the ebb and the mudflats seemed to stretch for eternity on both sides of the creek. Holbrooke was shivering in the unseasonably cold weather.

  This was the supplementary duty that Commodore Howe had failed to mention. Campbell had been right; it was nothing much. In fact, if the weather had been warmer, it would have had the character of a yachting trip.

  ‘Here they come, sir,’ said Jackson, shielding his eyes against the diffused glare of the mid-morning sun. He pointed south to where Portsmouth Harbour was hidden behind a bend in the creek.

  Now that his attention was drawn to them, Holbrooke could just see the two low, wide craft moving slowly towards the longboat. It was a curious sight, the brown of the unpainted hulls merging with the grey waters of the creek, while a solid block of red and yellow, topped by the glint of the polished metal of the musket muzzles showed where the soldiers were crammed into their places on the thwarts. The oars completed the picture as they regularly dipped and rose like the wings of some stately bird, drawing the boats ever closer.