by Chris Durbin
‘If, for example, he was offered another remote posting, filling perhaps a gap in the skills of the French Milices Gardes-Côtes, in a remote part of Brittany, would he not have taken it?’
Holbrooke looked affectionately at his friend. He’d come to value his insights.
‘With all the French artillery sent away into Germany, a professional gunner from a friendly country would be welcomed with open arms. The militia may be able to train infantry and even cavalry, but field artillery takes years of dedicated study.’
Holbrooke looked again at the chart.
‘It’d be a major’s command to fortify this side of the bay, and that major would certainly need to inspect the new batteries as they are being thrown up. But there’s little point in speculating. I must admit I was tempted to leave him a message. Perhaps Kestrel and Emden written in the sand.’ He smiled at the memory. ‘Thank God I restrained myself! Perhaps we should leave any mention of Major Albach out of the report, Pritchard, it’ll only set hares running.’
◆◆◆
It was a hard beat north to the rendezvous between Alderney and Cape La Hague, and they needed the help of the wind, which backed two-points in the afternoon watch, to make it on a single tack. The breeze dropped as it backed, and in the end, it was only the tide rushing between the mainland and Guernsey that propelled them to the agreed place to meet the squadron. Holbrooke had to admit that it was an impressive sight. A hundred and fifty ships in two divisions were crammed into the eight-mile gap between the island and the mainland. A huge squadron indeed, but it was nevertheless in good order. Essex was in the lead with a sloop on each flank. Holbrooke was interested to see that they were both smaller than Kestrel. He could see two frigates on either side of a great mass of transports and storeships, and dimly in the distance he could see the two fourth rates Portland and Deptford behind them. And that was just the first division! The second division was similarly organised with another fourth rate, Rochester, bringing up the rear. The Channel Fleet must have been stripped of frigates to provide Howe with this escort. The same Channel Fleet that was now on its way to Brest to blockade the French so that the Duke of Marlborough’s army could be put ashore unmolested. If Holbrooke knew anything about Anson, his blockade would be loose, hoping to tempt the French out to destroy them in a single battle.
Yes, a magnificent sight. Even so, Holbrooke was acutely aware that the whole body of ships was going backwards. At this state of the tide and this age of the moon, the stream was rushing nor’east through the gap at a full six knots. Even with the wind on their beam, the laden transports could sail at no more than four knots, so the whole squadron was involuntarily retreating before an inexorable force of nature.
Fairview thought it vastly amusing.
‘They’re making good time back towards Portsmouth, sir,’ he said.
‘I expect they are, Mister Fairview,’ Holbrooke replied, hoping against all his previous experience that the master would take the hint and mind his own business.
‘Two knots over the ground I reckon they’re doing.’
He rubbed his hands in glee.
‘Mind you, it’s past its worst, the stream will start to weaken now.’
He looked around for an audience but met only blank, abstracted faces.
‘Mister Howe’s problem,’ he declaimed to the stony-faced quarterdeck, ‘is that he has nowhere to anchor this many ships until he’s well south of Alderney. He must make the best of it that he can and hope that the ebb will take him as far as Sark. There’s a good anchorage at Baleine Bay in the southeast of the island, you could anchor the whole navy there. Ten or fifteen fathoms and a clean sandy bottom. With this wind there’s no chance of dragging. I’ll put a guinea on it that he’s heading for Baleine Bay!’
But the master was speaking to himself and nobody was paying attention. In any case, it would be a foolish man who staked his guinea against Fairview’s knowledge of the Channel.
‘Mister Edney, you have the signal book ready?’ asked Holbrooke sharply.
‘Aye-aye sir,’ Edney replied, and pulled the book out from behind the binnacle.
Howe had issued the most comprehensive set of signals that Holbrooke – or anyone else – had ever seen. Pages and pages of diagrams and text. There were flags and lights for almost any situation, but what Holbrooke was most keen to see was the signal for him to report aboard the flagship, a blue flag at the starboard foretopsail yardarm.
‘Then let’s see your telescope trained on the flagship, Mister Edney, and have the acknowledgement bent on. I want no delay when he hangs out the signal.’
There was a brief flurry as two master’s mates and three midshipmen fought savagely but silently over the two remaining telescopes.
In truth Holbrooke couldn’t fault the preparations. All his officers were on deck, his boat’s crew was lurking forward of the mainmast bitts and the yawl was on a short painter ready to be brought alongside in an instant.
‘Mister Fairview, how far does the squadron have to run for Baleine Bay now, and how far will it be from the bay at slack water?’
Fairview paused for a moment, his brain whirring.
‘Well, it’s maybe twenty or so miles from here. There’s another three hours before the tide turns, but it’s slacking all the time and soon they’ll be making way. Let’s say twenty-four miles by the turn of the tide at six o’clock. The wind’s failing us, so I expect we’ll be anchoring soon after sunrise to wait out the flood.’
Holbrooke nodded. The infuriating thing about Fairview was that in navigational matters he was invariably correct. Howe would like to hear that assessment because he’d be reluctant to anchor this great squadron in the dark. If he could get underway from Sark in the dog watches tomorrow then, even if the wind should fail entirely, he could be at Cancale Bay by the fifth. He made a mental note of those timings in case the subject should come up when he met the commodore.
‘Signal from flag, sir,’ called Edney in an important voice. ‘Captain of Kestrel report aboard the flagship.’
‘Very well, make the acknowledgement.’
It was a little thing, but senior officers tended to become irascible when their signals were ignored or acknowledged late. And Holbrooke sensed that this interview was important – vital even – to his career.
In this case, the commodore had no cause to complain as Kestrel answered in less than a minute after the blue flag had soared up to the flagship’s yardarm.
‘Mister Fairview. Lay me alongside the flag starboard side at half a cable. With all speed, if you please.’
◆◆◆
The great cabin of Essex was full of officers, a mix of soldiers and sailors, with the Duke of Marlborough and Commodore Howe holding court at the table. It was littered with maps and lists and a heated debate seemed to be taking place.
‘Mister Holbrooke, sir, from Kestrel with his report of the reconnaissance,’ announced Captain Campbell.
All conversation ceased and twenty pairs of eyes turned on Holbrooke.
Howe looked irritated. It dawned on Holbrooke that they’d been discussing the best place to land the army, and he wasn’t pleased to be doing so in front of such a large audience.
‘Clear the cabin if you please, Captain Campbell,’ he said. ‘This is a naval matter and I’ll hear Mister Holbrooke’s report alone. Your Grace, would you care to stay? and you, Captain Duff?’
The cabin emptied as the staff officers left, some looking cheerful but most disgusted that they weren’t being invited to hear this report. They all knew that a sloop had been sent ahead to look at Saint-Malo and at Cancale Bay, though few knew the name of the sloop and none other than Campbell knew this very young-looking commander.
‘Your Grace, may I present Captain Holbrooke?’
The duke rose and returned Holbrooke’s bow, with a degree of politeness calculated to a nicety. Yes, there were officers of Holbrooke’s age and rank on his staff, but they were all known to the duke. He was aware of w
hat patronage and money had brought them that far, whereas he knew nothing whatever of Holbrooke.
‘Here’s a man nearer our age, Duff,’ the commodore said to his second-in-command with a laugh. ‘Mister Holbrooke was made commander even younger than you!’
Faced with the duke’s age and nobility, and his military rank – he was a lieutenant-general and master of the ordnance – Howe had evidently decided to make a virtue of youth and energy. The duke looked unimpressed.
‘I’m sure you have a written report for me,’ Howe continued.
‘I do sir,’ said Holbrooke removing the sealed envelope from his pocket.
‘Well, you can give that to my secretary. For now, a brief summary of what you found, if you please.’
Holbrooke paused, putting his thoughts in order, this was no time to start with the usual formula, ‘I proceeded in pursuance of your orders…’
‘Take a seat man, if it will make you more comfortable,’ Howe said not unkindly and swept a pile of papers off the only spare chair. ‘You were to start with Cézembre Island, if I remember correctly,’ he prompted.
That was the nudge that Holbrooke needed.
‘Yes sir. The island is fortified, as you expected. There’s a battery looking west over the approach channel. There are at least two thirty-six pounders, high up on the northwestern cliffs.’
Howe shuffled the papers on the table.
‘There’s a chart here somewhere…’
‘I have one here,’ said Holbrooke, taking Fairview’s copy from his pocket.
Howe turned the chart so that the duke could see it.
‘The guns are here, sir,’ said Holbrooke, ‘and you can see the extent of their arcs to the east. They’re sited to cover the channel.’
‘How do you know their arcs?’ asked Howe.
‘That was when they stopped firing at us, sir,’ Holbrooke replied simply. ‘I saw gun emplacements stretching to the west, so I’m sure there are more than two guns in the battery. I’m certain those that fired on us were the only ones that would bear.’
He looked at Howe who almost winked. He had no need to ask that question, but he wanted the duke to know that his officers weren’t shy of taking fire.
‘You see, Your Grace, we know that the fort on Conchée Island is armed and manned so there’s no approaching Saint-Malo from the north. If Cézembre wasn’t armed, then it may have been possible to force the channel, but even then, there are two more forts on the way through, and then the three forts in front of the town. It really is impossible.’
‘Well, I’m disappointed,’ replied the duke. ‘An attack right into the town, or a landing under the walls would have saved a great deal of time. However, I see there are naval reasons for not making a direct assault. Proceed, if you please.’
Holbrooke cleared his throat, not entirely happy to be caught in the crossfire between a duke and a commodore.
‘I sailed around Cancale Point into the bay,’ Holbrooke continued, ‘arriving at midday…’
‘That would be yesterday wouldn’t it?’ asked Duff.
‘Yes, sir, this all happened yesterday.’
Holbrooke was starting to understand; Howe and Duff were gently educating the duke in the utility of naval power. They were ensuring that he understood that this whole stretch of coast had been covered in a single day, not the three or four that it would have taken on the land.
‘The beach south of Cancale is ideal for a landing, so long as we understand the tides. There’s a garrison here in Cancale and they have a battery of guns that face south across the bay. They command the beach up to this small village of La Houle.’
‘How big is La Houle,’ asked Howe.
‘Perhaps twenty houses, sir. The beach in front of the village is crowded with fishing boats. Then the shoreline continues south, curving towards the east as you see here,’ he pointed at the chart.
‘There’s a small battery being constructed just here, south of La Houle,’ he continued.
‘How do you know about that,’ asked Duff. ‘It must have been hard to spot if it didn’t fire at you.’
‘The guns aren’t mounted yet, sir. I went ashore at night and found the battery. It looked like the emplacements were being made for twenty-four pounders. I estimate that they could be mounted as soon as today.’
‘One moment, Commander,’ the duke interrupted. It was significant that he was pedantically using Holbrooke’s rank rather than the more usual courtesy title of captain. ‘You went ashore at night, alone?’
‘Not alone, Your Grace. I had my bosun and a man who speaks French like a Frenchman, just in case it was needed.’
The duke nodded thoughtfully.
‘Then you will know what this land is like above the beach.’
‘That was partly why I asked Captain Holbrooke to go ashore, Your Grace,’ said Howe.
‘The sand is firm and flat and depending on the tide there could be anything up to three hundred yards of it between the high and low water marks. Above the sand there are dunes around twenty feet high covered in tussock grass. The battery is being built on top of one of those. The land behind the dunes is flat and it appeared to be good going.’
Howe looked pleased.
‘And what does this battery command?’
‘The bay south of La Houle, sir,’ replied Holbrooke. ‘It’s well-sited and from what I saw, it was commanded by a regular artillery officer, not the local coastguard militia.’
The last thing that Holbrooke wanted to do was to be drawn into explaining how he knew the Austrian major in command of the French guns at the army’s landing site.
Howe looked at the duke.
‘Your Grace, in light of this information I must formally state my position. For you to attempt anything against Saint-Malo, this is where you must land, here at La Houle,’ he said jabbing a finger at the tiny hamlet with the stubby church tower. ‘We can deal with this battery and then your army can be put ashore in good order. It’s only seven miles marching to Saint-Malo, and most importantly the anchorage is sheltered from the west. I can guarantee to take you off from Cancale, if need be.’
‘Then so it must be, Commodore. I would have preferred to be landed at the town itself, but you tell me that it’s impossible. You command until I am ashore, and this is your decision.’
The duke looked as though he was lining up his defence already.
‘This map, may I have it?’ asked the duke.
‘Do you have another, Mister Holbrooke?’ asked Howe.
‘I brought three, sir. My sailing master asked that I give one to his colleague in your flagship; it’s marked with additional soundings and clearing lines.’
‘You’ll see Campbell’s sailing master sooner than you think, Captain Holbrooke,’ he replied with a subtle emphasis on the captain, for the duke’s benefit. ‘I have another duty for you. We must anchor over the tide, but I need a clear marker for the flagship’s berth, so that there’s no disorder as we approach the anchorage. Kestrel doesn’t have a station in the squadron, so you’ll be our marker. I’m sending you ahead to Baleine Bay with a pilot and you’re to anchor half a cable beyond where the flagship should be. ‘The pilot’s a Guernsey man… remind me of his name, would you?’ he asked the secretary.
‘Renouf sir, Ishmael Renouf.’
‘Of course, thank you.’ Howe looked stern for a moment. ‘Renouf is a good man, but the responsibility to place my flagship so that the squadron can anchor safely as they come up astern of me is yours, Mister Holbrooke. That must be understood.’
‘Aye-aye sir,’ replied Holbrooke.
‘And after Baleine Bay we will need to anchor again before we make Cancale Bay, unless this damned wind picks up. Perhaps south of the Minquiers, but that depends upon the wind. Speak to the master before you leave, he’ll tell you how much space the squadron needs, and you can give him that chart of Cancale.’
Holbrooke turned to leave.
‘Captain Holbrooke,’ said Howe before he’
d reached the cabin door, ‘I’m sure His Grace will agree that we owe you our thanks. This has saved us making an abortive attempt at the Saint-Malo channel. Now we can steer directly for the proper landing site.’
◆◆◆
10: Wind and Tide
Saturday, Third of June 1758.
Kestrel, at Sea. Baleine Bay, Sark.
It was one thing to decide on a destination, but in the English Channel with fickle and uncertain summer winds and a relentless tidal stream, it was quite another to get there. Kestrel had powered ahead of the squadron as soon as Holbrooke had set foot on his quarterdeck, and yet as the sun rose the forest of sails started showing on the northern horizon, closer than Holbrooke would have wished. For all Fairview’s effort, Kestrel would only be an hour or so ahead of Essex, barely time for the sloop to lay back on its anchor and show Howe’s sailing master where he should steer.
Renouf chewed his knuckles, infecting the whole quarterdeck with his nervousness.
‘How far to run now, Mister Renouf?’
Holbrooke was doing his best to appear calm, but it was a ponderous responsibility that Howe had laid on his shoulders. The squadron needed the best part of a mile for its anchorage, and even a mile was only safe so long as they weighed before the tide turned. If they stayed over a tide, the transports and storeships would inevitably collide as they swung. This Baleine Bay offered a bare mile from north to south.
‘Two cables, sir, or thereabouts,’ the pilot answered, ‘when Baleine Rock is on the beam.’
‘There’s a bare cable between the rock to starboard and shoal water to larboard,’ said Fairview confidentially. ‘Just enough space to swing if we need to.’ The master had no good opinion of the pilot’s skill, but that wasn’t personal, he had no good opinion of any pilot’s ability.
‘Fifteen fathoms you said, Mister Renouf?’
‘Aye sir, fifteen fathoms or thereabouts at the bottom of the tide. You’ll need to veer sixty fathoms to allow for the flood.’
Fairview nodded in agreement. If they placed themselves directly between Baleine Rock and the shoal to the east with sixty fathoms of cable, then they could swing safely and have some margin for error.
