by Chris Durbin
‘Deck ho! Sail, sir. Sail five points on the larboard bow.’
‘Very well,’ Holbrooke replied.
‘Mister Turner, run up to the masthead and let me know what you see.’
‘Half a cable to run,’ said the pilot.
Fairview was ready to order the topsails backed, Lynton was on the fo’c’sle at the cathead, ready to slip the anchor, but they were all staring at him. Didn’t they understand? Whatever that sail was, it couldn’t possibly be more important than the safe anchoring of the squadron. He opened his mouth to snap at them, to remind them of their duty, but at the last moment thought better of it. With a tricky anchorage coming up, it was no time to unsettle his people.
‘Proceed with the anchorage, Mister Fairview,’ he said in a calm voice.
As the cable snaked through the hawse, Turner hailed from the main topmast head.
‘It’s a man-o’-war, sir,’ he shouted, a little too excitedly for Holbrooke’s taste, ‘and there’s a sail beyond her that could be another man-o’-war.’
‘Very well,’ Holbrooke replied through the speaking trumpet. If one was a man-o’-war, then probably the second would also be.
‘Mister Lynton, can you leave the anchoring to the bosun? Very well, I’d welcome your opinion on those two sails, if you please. Let me know when you can tell whether they’re French.’
Lynton ran up the shrouds, perhaps not as fast as a topman, but certainly without discredit to his rank
It was a racing certainty that this frigate was French and that the second sail was also a frigate or corvette. As soon as Turner identified her as a man-o’-war it had narrowed the field down to British or French; no other nation had cause to cruise in this Gulf of Saint-Malo. As for her being British, well it was a possibility. Anson may have found the need to send a frigate or two to find Howe, but it was unlikely, and in any case, they’d be coming from the west, not the southeast. Holbrooke was confident that the next hail from Lynton would identify them as French, but it was worth waiting a few minutes for confirmation before committing himself.
‘Mister Edney, bend on the signal for an enemy in sight to the southeast, and the supplementary flags for two frigates.’
It was only Howe’s new list of signals that allowed Holbrooke to be so specific in his report to the flagship. Never had such a comprehensive list been issued to a squadron. It remained to be seen how robust the system would prove under the stress of action.
‘Mister Matross, prepare to fire a gun to windward.’
With so many matters to occupy the flagship as it led a hundred-and-fifty ships to an anchorage, it would be easy for them to miss a flag hoist if their attention wasn’t drawn to it.
‘Deck there, they’re two frigates, sir, or perhaps one’s a sloop. Ship rigged in any case,’ shouted Lynton. ‘French for sure, they’re tops’ls are fresh as daisies.’
‘Make the signal, Mister Edney,’ said Holbrooke.
Kestrel was laying back on her anchor, the fitful westerly wind having its own way while the tide was briefly slack at low water.
‘Flagship’s signalling, sir.’ Edney leafed through the sewn pages of the squadron’s fighting instructions.
‘Kestrel prepare to weigh anchor,’ he reported.
‘Next signal will be to investigate the enemy,’ said Lynton as he jumped from the gunwale back to the deck, ‘A guinea on it,’ and he looked expectantly at his gambling partner Fairview who grimaced and shook his head.
Holbrooke would have liked to take that bet. He knew Howe better than Lynton did, and he was certain that the flagship would anchor within hailing range, then the commodore could give detailed instructions to his sloop commander. It wasn’t right to say that Howe didn’t trust his subordinates, it would be more accurate to say that he left nothing to chance if he could avoid it.
◆◆◆
‘Anchor’s at short stay,’ Lynton reported, ‘we can be underway in less than five minutes from when you give the order, sir.’
Holbrooke glanced across at Fairview who’d been in deep conversation with the pilot. The master saw the look and nodded.
‘Yes, sir,’ he replied to the unspoken question. ‘We’ll be safe enough at short stay, the tide’s just making now and won’t be more than a knot by the time the flagship reaches us. If we should drag, it’ll be nor’-nor’east, but it’s unlikely.’
‘Nevertheless, Master, I’d be grateful if you’d watch the bearings.’
Holbrooke looked carefully at the rock that was only half a cable to the west and found a distinctive tree on the shoreline to take a transit. It was more accurate than the compass and he could watch it himself, getting the first hint of any drag.
‘Mister Lynton, an experienced man’s foot on the cable, if you please, and he’s to sing out if he feels any movement.’
It took an hour for Essex to come to the anchorage, an hour in which the two Frenchmen beat ever closer. They were only five miles downwind now, sailing beautifully under those carefully cut sails that hadn’t suffered the sun, the wind and the salt spray for the months on blockade duty that their British counterparts had. The largest was a small frigate showing ten gun-ports each side. She wasn’t much bigger than Kestrel although her guns were probably eight-pounders rather than Kestrel’s six-pounders. The smaller ship would have been called a sloop if she’d been British. She was what the French called a frégate légèr or sometimes a corvette. Whatever the owners called her, she had seven gun-ports each side, picked out in white against a black hull. Perhaps he’d been a little hasty in identifying them both as frigates, but Holbrooke thought he’d be excused.
‘Mister Holbrooke,’ shouted Howe from the bowsprit of Essex. The flagship hadn’t even let go her anchor before the commodore was hailing Kestrel.
‘Sir!’ responded Holbrooke.
‘Weigh anchor immediately and run down to those two. Stay to windward and don’t engage them unless you can get that smaller one alone. I don’t want to send any of the squadron’s escorts, but if they come within two miles, I will do so to prevent them from seeing the flatboats. Just persuade them that they shouldn’t be interfering.’
Holbrooke could see Howe’s point. These Frenchmen could do no real harm and it wasn’t worth breaking the cohesion of his force to see them off. Kestrel was ideal for this task for the same reason that she’d been the right choice for scouting the anchorage; she wasn’t part of Howe’s plan, and sending her away wouldn’t alter his formation. Holbrooke could already hear the pawls of the windlass clicking more slowly as the sloop was hauled up to her anchor, and he could see the topmen running up to loose the sails.
‘They can try to get among the transports all they like,’ Howe shouted, pointing to the squadron behind him.
They were anchoring in the same formation that they’d used for cruising, with the exception that the escorts from the starboard wing had moved around to larboard, so that they protected the seaward side of the anchored formation. To reach the vulnerable transports and storeships, the Frenchmen would have to run the gauntlet of the two fourth rates and seven frigates that would soon be covering a flank only a mile long. It was an impossibility.
It was a tricky manoeuvre to get the sloop out of her anchorage without being set onto the shoal only a hundred yards to leeward or drifting down on the tide to collide with the flagship and the first division of transports immediately astern. To Fairview, however, it was another opportunity to show his skill. There was no doubt that a dozen pairs of eyes watched them from Essex even though the flagship was still engaged in anchoring. Under jib, fore stays’l and fore tops’l, Kestrel cast her head to the nor’east. The instant that it looked like he could take advantage of a sustained gust in the westerly wind, Fairview ordered the anchor to be broken free from the sandy bottom. Kestrel gathered way, still pointing directly at the flagship.
Holbrooke held his breath.
It was a race between two natural elements: the sloop had to gather speed from the wind to
achieve steerage way before the sluggish tidal stream bore her down on Essex. For a few seconds it appeared that she wouldn’t make it and Jackson’s team on the fo’c’sle readied their fenders and bearing-off poles. Then, with only yards to go, the quartermaster nodded at Fairview. The rudder was biting!
‘Bring her easy to starboard,’ the master ordered.
A sharp movement of the rudder now, when the sloop was still only just moving through the water, could bring disaster by interrupting the flow past the stern.
Holbrooke watched as Kestrel’s bows paid off the wind. Now that the flagship was on the larboard side – the windward side – the danger was over, and she slipped confidently past the huge third-rate.
‘Neatly done, Mister …’
Holbrooke stopped in mid-sentence as something small and solid hit the crown of his hat. He looked to windward, just in time to see Howe waving a ship’s biscuit at him amid the grins of everyone who could spare a moment from anchoring. Holbrooke looked momentarily perplexed.
‘It’s just the commodore’s way, apparently,’ said Chalmers. ‘I fancy he’s proving to the world that Kestrel passed a mere biscuit-toss away! I believe it may even be a compliment’
‘Oh… Well…’
‘You should raise your hat, sir,’ whispered Fairview, ‘to acknowledge the jest. Otherwise the commodore may think you don’t approve.’
Holbrooke felt foolish, but he lifted his hat to the commodore and ostentatiously patted out the non-existent dent. He waved in what he hoped would be taken for a cheerful manner. It was all very well for a commodore and the second son of a peer to find amusement this way, but as a mere commander with no connections to speak of, Holbrooke felt far too vulnerable to take a risk with humour.
He replaced his hat, the wooden smile still fixed incongruously to his face.
‘Are we clear of the shoal? Yes? Then bear away Mister Fairview and let’s be after those gentlemen.’
‘First Lieutenant, clear for action and beat to quarters.’
There was immediate bustle on the deck, as lashings were cast loose, and guns were run out. From below could be heard the carpenter’s mates knocking away the wedges from removable bulkheads. Everyone appeared to be in motion – everyone except the poor pilot Renouf, who had expected to be back aboard the flagship by now. He’d been forgotten in the haste to be after the enemy. Now he seemed condemned to another day and night aboard Kestrel, and he didn’t look pleased.
◆◆◆
Holbrooke closed his telescope with a snap.
‘They’re trying to lure us away from the squadron in the hope that they can beat us before Howe dispatches a frigate or two.’
Kestrel had been chasing the two Frenchmen to leeward for an hour now. The sloop was in no immediate danger, having the weather gage, and they could easily beat back to the anchorage if the Frenchmen turned on them.
Lynton and Fairview nodded in agreement. They’d heard the commodore’s orders as well as Holbrooke had.
‘Mister Fairview. What’s the distance to the flagship now?’
‘Four miles, sir.’
‘Then I suggest that’s our limit. Bring her to, and we’ll see what our friends do next.’
It was unnaturally quiet on the placid sea with the sloop lying-to under a backed main topsail and jib. The people were still at quarters and the guns were run out. The smoke from the slow match drifted idly to leeward, towards the enemy. The French frigate and the corvette were also lying-to, perhaps deciding on their next move.
‘Excuse me sir, but I believe I recognise those two. They’re from Saint-Malo, unless I’m sadly mistaken.’
‘Saint-Malo, Mister Renouf?’ replied Holbrooke. ‘I thought that was just a privateer port.’
‘Well, it is really, sir, there’s upwards of fifty of the roving gentlemen that hail from there. But these two men-o’-war are also based at Saint-Malo, they anchor out in the Rance, but they have mud berths in the lagoon as well. They don’t often go to sea,’ he said with a gesture of contempt. ‘Of course, the infamous Thurot’s ship is berthed there when he’s not cruising, but he’s a King’s officer now, although that hasn’t changed his habits.’
‘That makes sense, sir,’ said Lynton. ‘With the Channel Fleet at sea these two could hardly have come around from Brest and if they were from Cherbourg, they’d not want to be cut off from home by the squadron.’
‘Well, we can be sure that they’re here to find out where the squadron’s bound. Probably a smuggler brought the news of the sailing. Then they saw us off Saint-Malo and decided that was too much of a coincidence.
‘Yes, but whatever their orders, they’d be blocks of wood if they hadn’t caught the privateering spirit in the port,’ Renouf replied. ‘There’s neither a shopkeeper and nor a labourer that doesn’t owe his employment to the privateers. They’ll be on the lookout for an easy capture, for certain.’
Holbrooke looked gain at the pilot. He’d been quiet until now, but the idea of an enterprise on the edge of legality seemed to have enlivened him. Of course, the Guernsey men and Jersey men were famous smugglers, a trade that they didn’t see fit to give up in wartime. He’d have better knowledge of the doings of Saint-Malo folk than any mainland Englishman.
‘Then what’ll they do next, Mister Renouf? If you were in their shoes, what would you do?’
Renouf stared wistfully to leeward, perhaps he was closer to these Frenchman than he would admit.
‘I’d obey my orders and as soon as I was confident of the squadron’s destination, I’d sail back to Saint-Malo as fast as I could. The captain of the frigate – she’s the Joli incidentally – is a regular officer and has high notions of honour.’
‘And they’re unlikely to be sure yet. Even if they guess that it’s Saint-Malo, they can’t be certain. It could still be any of the ports between Cape La Hague and Ushant. Granville, for example,’ said Holbrooke. ‘No, I believe they’ll want to see the squadron a little closer, but to do that they have to get past us. They won’t want to tackle us with the squadron just to windward, there’s too much chance of us crippling one or both, even if they should take us. If I was that captain, I’d be looking for a way of getting closer to the squadron.’
‘Wouldn’t it be grand if they split up?’ said Lynton, almost licking his lips. ‘We’d only need half a glass to take that little fellow. Two broadsides and he’d strike before we could board him. The commodore would surely send help when he heard the guns, and then there’d be no rescue from the frigate.’
‘Wishes won’t achieve anything, gentlemen. We’ll hold this position until the commodore recalls us.’
‘Mister Edney, can you see the flagship’s signals?’ asked Lynton, taking the hint.
◆◆◆
Kestrel waited in vain. The French frigate and the sloop loitered through the day and in the first dog-watch Kestrel was recalled. The squadron weighed anchor and now there were seven British frigates underway; the odds had changed. If just two of them were dispatched to chase the French, it would be odd if they failed to take at least one of them. The Frenchmen were also of that opinion and they reached away across the bay towards Saint-Malo.
◆◆◆
11: Reconnaissance
Monday, Fifth of June 1758.
Kestrel, at Sea. Off Cancale.
Holbrooke stood stiff and straight, his hat hovering some inches above his head as the pipes screeched their greeting to the duke and the commodore, stopping just in time to avoid rendering those sacred to honours to the colonel and naval lieutenant that accompanied them. The people were at their quarters and the sloop was cleared for action – they were within long cannon-shot of the battery at Cancale – and yet still the ceremonial had to be observed. Holbrooke was aware that nobody else thought it a little strange that they should bother with these naval courtesies when round shot could be crashing around them at any moment. Certainly, Lynton and the master saw nothing incongruous, and by the bearing of the bosun’s mate and the s
ideboys, neither did they.
The introductions were swift. Only Lynton and Fairview warranted the notice of the two great men, and Fairview only because they would be sharing a very small quarterdeck with him for the next hour. Swift, even perfunctory, and yet the introductions were hugely important to Lynton; this was how the men who could influence his career became aware of him as an individual.
‘Well, let’s go, Holbrooke. The duke and I want to see these beaches of yours.’
Holbrooke had already noticed that the lieutenant who trailed in Howe’s wake was not carrying the customary bunting bundle. There would be no shift of the commodore’s broad pennant, not for a mere unrated sloop.
‘Wind’s nor’westerly and the tide has just turned, sir,’ said Holbrooke, ‘we won’t get much closer than a mile to the dunes.’
‘Then so be it,’ replied Howe, ‘get me as close as possible but don’t run aground under the enemy guns, not even on this flat sand on a windward shore and a rising tide.’
‘Carry on, Mister Fairview, keep to the five-fathom line,’ Holbrooke ordered.
‘And a half, five,’ intoned the leadsman from the starboard fore-chains, as if responding to a cue.
The colonel broke off from the duke, who was standing as far aft as he could go, beyond the number fifteen six-pounder.
‘His Grace wishes to know the significance of the wind and tide as it relates to the possibility of running aground,’ he asked.
Howe laughed. ‘You tell him Holbrooke.’
‘Well, sir, running aground is a bad business at any time but under enemy guns it could be disastrous. In this case the wind and tide are important because if we do run aground, the rising tide will soon float us again and the wind off the shore will help push us out to deeper water. It’s all sand here, so with the sea almost flat, there’s no danger to the ship’s structure if we run gently aground. It would be a different case if there were rocks. Under these circumstances I can afford to take more of a risk.’
