Perilous Shore

by Chris Durbin

  ‘In that case, we’ll shorten sail now and let the men have their dinner, the officers too. At two bells I’ll want you to stand in for Cancale Bay.’

  Fairview ruminated on this information for a moment. At Holbrooke’s request he’d found the best charts of the Gulf of Saint-Malo that were available, but his captain had remained close-lipped on the reason, and he hadn’t specifically mentioned Cancale Bay. However, the vast camp on the Isle of Wight, the flatboats and the mass of transports in the Solent told their own story. It was common knowledge that something was to be attempted against the French coast. It had been a matter of speculation in the gunroom ever since they’d been ordered to sail ahead of Howe’s squadron. With this new information, it wasn’t hard to guess that Cancale was a potential landing site for the army.

  There was a flurry of activity as the hands were called to shorten sail. The bosun, of course, was supervising from the deck although his mates were doing all the bawling while Jackson stood impassively beside the weather mizzen shrouds, watching the complicated manoeuvres. Jackson had only held his warrant since the previous year. When the captured Dutch pirate ship Torenvalk had been bought into the service in Port Royal, Holbrooke had been promoted to commander to take her to England with dispatches. He’d used every ounce of the minuscule amount of leverage that he possessed to bring Jackson from their frigate Medina into His Majesty’s newest sloop-of-war, the newly renamed Kestrel, as his bosun. That leverage had been well used, for Jackson had transitioned with ease from the lower deck to the lofty heights of a warrant officer. Holbrooke could hardly imagine sailing without his old shipmate.

  ‘Mister Jackson, do you have a moment, in my cabin?’

  The quarterdeck officers stared. The captain asking to speak privately with the bosun was hardly unusual, but to do so when stuns’ls were being struck and the courses handed was unprecedented – this was the bosun’s reason for existence.

  ‘Aye-aye sir,’ he replied, knuckling his forehead, a gesture that he hadn’t lost from his days as an able seaman. ‘My mates can handle this. Keep an eye on them, would you, Mister Fairview?’

  ◆◆◆

  ‘Sherry, I think, Serviteur,’ he said to his servant, who had also come to Kestrel from Medina. He’d volunteered off Cape François just minutes ahead of the bottom of his fishing boat – his only source of income – parting company with the rest of the ramshackle vessel. Had he not reached the frigate, he would at best have been destitute, at worst his flesh would have been feeding the very fish that he’d planned to catch. Serviteur had at one time been the property of a wealthy French plantation owner for whom he carried out the function of major-domo. He was a very superior captain’s servant for a sixteen-gun sloop, very superior indeed, and he had the distinction of being the only black man on board.

  Serviteur brought the glasses of sherry on a silver platter then withdrew to the scullery.

  ‘I must ask for your assistance, Mister Jackson, in a dangerous undertaking,’ said Holbrooke, after taking a first sip of the sherry.

  Jackson wondered whether Holbrooke understood what a thrill it was to hear himself being referred to as mister by a man holding the King’s commission. He’d come from the humblest and most deprived of beginnings and the thought of one day holding a warrant rank had for most of his life seemed an unobtainable dream. And it would have remained unobtainable if Holbrooke hadn’t fulfilled his promise to secure a bosun’s warrant for him in his first command. Now this man was asking – asking, mind you – for a favour.

  ‘Yes sir, whatever you wish, of course.’

  Holbrooke held up his hand and laughed.

  ‘You haven’t heard what it is yet,’ he said. ‘You may not like it when you’ve heard my proposal.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter, sir,’ he said and stared doggedly back at Holbrooke, ‘if you need something done, I’ll do it, whatever it is,’ he ended in an embarrassed mutter.

  Holbrooke gazed abstractedly out of the cabin windows. What had he done, he wondered, to deserve this kind of loyalty? Jackson had saved his life in Kingston and had seconded him in everything he’d attempted since. All Holbrooke had ever done in return was to obtain a warrant for him, and after all that was only self-interest born of his knowledge of Jackson’s qualities.

  ‘Very well, but you still have the option to change your mind.’

  Holbrooke took a deep breath.

  ‘This afternoon we’ll sail boldly into Cancale Bay to determine whether it’s a suitable place to land the Duke of Marlborough’s army.’

  Jackson had already guessed as much, there must be more.

  ‘I’ll take the sloop as close in as Mister Fairview will let me, and I hope that we’ll get some sort of an idea of the suitability of the beaches. You’ve seen the flatboats and I’ll value your opinion.’

  Jackson nodded cautiously; he knew there was more to come. There was no great danger for him in bringing the sloop into what was likely to be an undefended road.

  ‘However, my orders are broader than that. Commodore Howe doesn’t believe that we can learn enough from an inspection from the sea. Therefore, as soon as we’ve seen all there is to see, we’ll withdraw to the north out of sight of the coast.’

  Jackson looked puzzled for a moment.

  ‘So,’ he went on, ‘after sunset we’ll return and put a boat ashore to examine the beach and the land behind it. There’ll be at least four hours of darkness. Twilight will end about ten o’clock, then if the master’s prediction is correct, with this thin, low cloud still covering us, it’ll be black as pitch until the moon rises at four bells in the middle watch. That should give us plenty of time. I’m ordered to go myself, and I’m hoping that you’ll agree to join me.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ replied Jackson, ‘of course I will, we’ll need a good boat’s crew and we’ll need to be armed ourselves.’

  ‘I’m not sure that weapons will help us,’ Holbrooke replied, ‘but I suppose it would be as well. I’ll wear my uniforms and you must carry your warrant. If we’re captured, we must give no excuse for being taken as spies.’

  ‘You speak good French, I remember, sir.’

  ‘Well, it passes for conversation, but no Frenchman would ever be deceived, my accent would give me away in a moment. It’s a weakness of the plan, but as far as I’m aware I speak the language as well as any officer in the ship.’

  Both men were lost in thought for a moment. Holbrooke’s mind registered the sounds of plates being moved around in the scullery, but it didn’t rise to the surface of his consciousness, it was just his servant preparing to offer his captain an early dinner before the sloop moved inshore. They sensed rather than heard the tall figure of Serviteur walk across the cabin.

  ‘Sherry, sir?’ he asked, offering the decanter on its silver tray.

  Holbrooke nodded distractedly and Serviteur filled their glasses. He straightened to return to the galley, hesitated a moment, then turned back to Holbrooke.

  ‘Sir, if you will excuse me, I speak perfect French,’ he said softly, and stood rigidly still, the perfectly mannered servant.

  Holbrooke and Jackson stared at him.

  ‘You heard our conversation, Serviteur?’

  ‘It would be hard not to, sir,’ and he motioned to the scullery only eight feet away. ‘And furthermore, sir, my old master’s family was from this area and my French has an authentic Breton accent. I can also understand some Breton, although I’ve never tried to speak it.’

  Holbrooke opened his mouth to dismiss Serviteur with his thanks; a captain’s servant had no place on clandestine missions such as this. He must remember in future that nothing that he said in his cabin was secret unless he sent his servant away. Then he looked up at the man standing so respectfully beside him. He had to acknowledge that there was a germ of sense in what he said. Holbrooke’s imperfect French accent was the weak part of the plan. If all went well and they met nobody, it wouldn’t matter, but if they had to talk their way out of a difficult situation�
�� Well, he knew that his accent and his stilted vocabulary and grammar would give the game away instantly.

  ‘If I may, sir? This is a nighttime expedition. I have a certain advantage at night.’

  Holbrooke smiled while Jackson laughed outright. Serviteur, a freed Caribbean slave, was of course a black man, and he was well known for his nighttime invisibility. While the faces of all the other members of the crew shone like a full moon on the deck at night, Serviteur blended into the surrounding darkness.

  ‘You know how unusual this is, Serviteur, for a man in your position to offer his services in these circumstances, and the impossibility of me to even considering your offer seriously?’

  ‘I only want to be given a chance to prove my worth, sir.’

  Holbrooke had never seen his servant discomposed before, not even when he came on board Medina off Cape François, as his fishing boat sank alongside. He looked positively nervous, swaying slightly from side to side, more than was necessary to keep his balance against the ship’s motion

  ‘Good God, man. Didn’t you do that back in January, off Borkum? You saved my life, if you remember.’

  ‘As did Mister Jackson, in Jamaica, if the stories are true…’

  Serviteur stood his ground, every inch the deferential servant but unwilling to withdraw from this battle of wills.

  Jackson looked at his captain and nodded almost imperceptibly. There was no doubting it, Holbrooke thought, Serviteur would be an asset on this mission. He was a formidable man who’d shown his ability to think quickly in a crisis. If he hadn’t been lurking in the scullery back in March, as he was today, Holbrooke would probably have been killed or at least severely injured by the drink-maddened first lieutenant who attacked him. Serviteur had struck fast when he saw the danger, breaking Deschamps’ wrist so that he dropped the wicked little dirk that was aimed at his captain’s gut.

  ‘One moment, if you please.’

  Holbrooke could think more clearly looking out of the windows at the ever-changing vista of scurrying clouds and waves. He’d never seen a view to rival that from the great cabin of a man-o’-war. His mind registered the fact that they were moving more slowly now, under reduced sail. The sun had still not broken through and the grey ocean slipped away slowly in their wake. A seagull, the sort they called a herring gull, slid silently into view from the starboard quarter. The bird’s smart grey-and-white plumage looked as though it was created specifically for this sea, this sky. The gull looked at him knowingly through the salt-stained glass, its yellow-rimmed eye mocking him for his timidity. With a derisive squawk it tilted its wings and was gone, lost from his view as it soared away to starboard and upwards to berate the topmen in its own environment.

  ‘You understand the danger, Serviteur?’ he said, still looking out of the window.

  ‘I do, sir.’

  Holbrooke turned, it was like seeing a frozen moment of a play, the actors caught on stage in the middle of a scene. Neither Jackson nor Serviteur moved a muscle, they appeared not even to be breathing.

  ‘Then put away your tray and take a seat, we have much planning to do.’

  ◆◆◆

  The reconnaissance had gone well. Kestrel had sailed brazenly into the Gulf of Mont Saint-Michel in the middle of the afternoon watch, then hauled her wind to beat into the road at Cancale. Holbrooke hoped that it all looked very casual, a British sloop eager to surprise an unwary privateer anchored away from the protective guns of Saint-Malo, rather than the precursor to the landing of an army. Of course, all they found was a dozen fishing boats hauled up on the beach and a sleepy village watching over the scene. The battery at Cancale had raised a flag and fired an optimistic gun in their direction, but it fell short. It was useful though for Holbrooke to hold the picture in his mind so that he could describe it to the commodore. The wide beach sheltered by a rocky outcrop at its northern end, the land rising gently from the shore, riven by small valleys where watercourses had flowed into the bay at some time in the past. It was a near-perfect place for a landing; a safe anchorage for the squadron, a good, sheltered beach for the boats, a safe area for the battalions to form into columns and easy access to the hinterland. Holbrooke knew that the duke intended to fortify the beach as soon as he had landed; for without the beach secured, his withdrawal route was at risk. He could see how readily it could be achieved by throwing up earthworks above the beach.

  Howe had planned to sail from Portsmouth on this very day, but it would take time to marshal his great squadron, and he was unlikely to clear the Solent until tomorrow or the next day. Holbrooke expected to meet him off Alderney perhaps as early as the third of June, certainly no earlier. That set the time imperative for this reconnaissance.

  The master took soundings as Kestrel beat into the road, then reached across parallel with the beach, but that was normal for any British cruiser in inshore waters. There was no reaction to their incursion except for that single optimistic shot from the battery and frantic efforts to haul the fishing boats further up the beach. Much good that would do them if Holbrooke took a fancy to let his broadsides loose.

  The master’s weather prediction was proved correct; the wind held steady and the blanket of cloud persisted. That was important to Holbrooke’s plan. A clear, starlit night could frustrate them entirely and then he’d have a choice: risk discovery as the boat pulled into the beach or confess to Howe that he’d failed.

  ‘Have you selected the boat’s crew, Mister Jackson?’ Holbrooke asked as Point Cancale dropped below the horizon astern.

  ‘Your own crew, sir, they all volunteered. I’m shipping a swivel and the gunner’s mate will be with us, just in case. And I’ve arranged the light signals with Mister Lynton.’

  Fairview and Lynton were drawn into the conversation. They all knew the plan now; it could hardly be kept secret any longer. There had been polite protests from both of his senior officers. Lynton thought that he should go instead of his captain, but Lynton spoke almost no French, and besides, Commodore Howe had been specific in his instructions that Holbrooke should be the one to lead the shore party. Fairview didn’t want anyone to go at all. He thought it madness of the first degree to go traipsing around on the shores of an enemy country.

  Kestrel had spent the dog watches lying-to fifteen miles north-northwest of Cancale Point, just to seaward of the Chausey Islands and well clear of their hidden rocks and banks. If anyone saw them from the islands, they had no means of communicating quickly with the mainland and no real incentive to attempt to do so. As the last dogwatch ended, the sloop filled her sails and bore away with a quartering wind for Cancale Bay.

  ◆◆◆

  ‘You see that light on the shore, Dawson?’

  The coxswain nodded in reply, his movement barely visible in the darkness. There was no need for silence this far from the shore, but the mood of the boat said otherwise. The crew was to a man as worried about this as the master and first lieutenant.

  ‘There’s your mark, the church at the village of La Houle. Aim for a spot half a mile to the left, that’ll keep us well clear of the fishing boats.’

  Kestrel’s reconnaissance hadn’t been wasted. They’d confirmed that the bay to the south of the village and the area where the fishing boats were hauled out was deserted, a perfect place for a clandestine landing.

  Holbrooke remembered the concern on the faces of Lynton and Fairview as he gave his last instructions before descending into the boat. He just hoped that everyone remembered their parts and held their nerves. Edney was the key to it all. He would command the yawl and it was he who would have to make the decision to withdraw, leaving his captain on enemy soil, if the shore party didn’t return by one o’clock. The timing was critical, the cloud was thinning and even though the starlight couldn’t penetrate it, a quarter moon would, and then the sloop would be immediately visible. Until moonrise, under reduced canvas, she would only be visible from the shore if she was expected. It was imperative that she should be underway thirty minutes past one
, captain or no captain. Holbrooke expected, no, he hoped, that they could conduct their business in the three hours of darkness, but he knew that any number of factors could hold them ashore: an encounter with the locals, a militia patrol, a missed turning. It was as well to be prepared.

  ◆◆◆

  The yawl thrust its forefoot into the sand, and the two bow oars dragged it as high as it would go. There were no lights at all, even the light in the church at La Houle had been extinguished when they were only halfway to the shore. Dawson had steered the remainder of the way by the feel of the wind on his cheek with Edney watching the faint glimmer of the wake to check that they weren’t going around in circles. It was hardly surprising that there were no lights; the people of a poor, remote place like La Houle would hardly waste their tallow dips, and certainly not their expensive candles or lanterns, after their evening business was over. The end of vespers would be the signal for everyone to bar their doors and take to their beds. There was little chance of an encounter with the locals.

  ‘All set?’

  Answering nods from Jackson and Serviteur.

  ‘Remember, Mister Edney,’ Holbrooke looked at both the midshipman and his coxswain, to ensure that both knew the importance of the timings, ‘you must be gone from here at one o’clock. If we’re not here, then we’ll see you in the same place at midnight tomorrow.’

  ◆◆◆

  8: An Old Friend

  Friday, Second of June 1758.

  Kestrel, at Anchor. Cancale Bay.

  It was a strange sensation to be standing on enemy territory. After they had splashed through the little waves that caressed the shore – they were so gentle that they couldn’t be said to be breaking – the sand felt hard and dry underfoot. There were four and a half hours to high water and when the boat came back for them, they’d be meeting it two hundred yards further up the beach. Edney would have to remember that. There was a huge tidal range in this Gulf of Mont Saint-Michel, and it would be easy for the longboat to be left high and dry by the retreating sea.