by Chris Durbin
‘Here you go, sir,’ said a middle-aged seaman, the stroke oar, knuckling his forehead. ‘Compliments of Mister Upton, our sailmaker. There’s one for you and one for the marine gentleman.’
He offered Holbrooke two cushions just like those that the oarsmen had, but they were new, and the word Kestrel had been done in stitches of red wool diagonally across each cushion. It was a handsome, thoughtful gift; Holbrooke imagined that Campbell would have been involved. In any event, they were most welcome and would become more so; it would be a long day.
They rowed over to the anchored flagship where they met the other three boats and lay alongside in turn as the swivel guns and ammunition were lowered into the bows. They were big, these flatboats, but with fifty soldiers embarked, rations and water for the oarsmen, ammunition for the swivel gun and the gang-boards stowed over the keel there would be no spare space at all. God help them if they came within range of French cannister shot! Holbrooke cast that appalling image from his mind. There was nothing to be gained by dwelling on the possibilities of bloody disaster.
The next task was for Holbrooke’s division to embark its load of grenadiers. Each flatboat had a number painted on its transom, and the landing units were allocated to boats by the numbers. Holbrooke’s boats were marked five, six, seven and eight.
These grenadiers were the shock troops of the infantry, picked from the biggest and strongest of the ranks. They came into the flatboats to the beat of a drum, each man swinging himself over the gunwale and into the boat in perfect unison, so that in a matter of a few minutes they were all seated, those in the centre facing inboard and those at the bows and stern facing forward or aft. Each man carried his small knapsack with a day’s rations and fifty rounds of ball and powder, and each man’s musket was gripped vertically between his knees.
Fifty-one, Holbrooke thought as he saw the small drummer-boy stow his sticks in his shirt and drop into the boat, one more than he’d expected. The youngster sat on his drum over the keel between the knees of the grenadiers.
It seemed odd – from a sea officer’s perspective – that the soldiers had to do everything to the beat of a drum. It was so unlike the freedom of action that seamen had. Yet Holbrooke knew that it was necessary. The big, cumbersome smooth-bore land pattern muskets were most effective when fired en masse by a disciplined body of men. It was the shock effect of fifty lead balls weighing a little over an ounce each and travelling at six hundred yards in a second, arriving simultaneously at the target, that won battles. To achieve that shock effect a company must form up quickly, each man in his allotted place and load and fire in unison. There was no room for independent action and no room for hanging back; the beat of the drum was essential.
Now it was a matter of waiting for the signal to start towards the shore.
Since before sunrise they’d heard the dull, flat booms of the bomb vessels pounding the town. It was a diversion of course, to hold the enemy’s main force in Cherbourg. But now the guns of the third and fourth rates and the frigates started pounding the forts and batteries guarding the bay. As Holbrooke had guessed, the Bay of Saint-Marais had been selected for the landing. He felt a surge of pride that the beach and its enclosing headlands had been surveyed by his own ship. It was Fairview’s diligent work that would ensure that none of these flatboats struck a rock before they had disgorged their load of soldiers.
‘They won’t be deceived for long,’ said Overton, cocking an ear to the east, ‘not when they see this bombardment. It must be apparent that Saint-Marais Bay is our objective, even to the French.’
He sounded a little nervous, the trepidation of soldiers the world over before they go into the attack. It would pass, Holbrooke knew, as soon as the bows of the flatboat hit the sand.
‘I’m not sure, sir,’ replied Treganoc. ‘From Cherbourg, it can’t be obvious where we are concentrating. The transports are so spread out, and it’s hard to ignore the bombs that are dropping around your ears. We may create enough doubt for the French commander to hold his force at the town until he’s certain that we’re not just demonstrating off Saint-Marais. Enough time for you to establish yourself ashore. Remember, we can shift our point of attack from the sea much faster than an army can march from one landing site to another across the land.’
‘I hope you’re right, Mister Treganoc, because even with twenty flatboats we can still land no more than a thousand grenadiers and guardsmen in this first wave. I’d be surprised if the French can’t muster at least three-thousand men on this coast. If they concentrate at the right place, we won’t get ashore at all.’
It was just nerves, thought Holbrooke, yet he was surprised to hear it from Overton. He must be well regarded to have been given the command of the battalion’s grenadiers, and yet he sounded unsure of himself.
‘Let’s concentrate on our task, gentlemen,’ he said to break Overton’s cycle of pessimism. He was pleased to see that Overton collected himself and moved on to studying the shoreline with his sergeant-major.
Holbrooke’s division was on the left flank of the assault. They were to secure the eastern end of the beach and then, with reinforcements, march on the fort that perched on the point. The fort would be a continuing problem until it was silenced. Fortunately, the French engineers had been forced to compromise on its position so that it looked both east towards Cherbourg and west over the approach to the Bay of Saint-Marais. Although its guns would be a threat during the run-in, they couldn’t cover the beaches themselves. Holbrooke had only to bring his division safely through that first danger, then they would be shielded by the point itself. Overton would have to deal with the entrenchments on the beach, but not the big guns.
Overton’s patch of beach was perhaps a hundred and fifty yards wide, but to reach it the flatboats would have to thread their way between Querqueville point and a large patch of rocks in the bay, a gap of just sixty yards at this state of the tide. Holbrooke knew his mark, a gable-ended barn, probably the French equivalent of a tithe barn, that sat back a quarter of a mile from the shore. With the barn bearing south-by-west on his approach, the Querqueville guns would have him in range for just a mile. At full stretch even the slow flatboats could cover that mile in fifteen minutes. That meant he’d have to brave three or four shots from each gun, perhaps sixteen shots in all. Holbrooke knew how difficult it was to hit a small moving target at sea when under fire from the men-of-war offshore. It would be sheer chance or excellent shooting indeed if his flatboats were hit. At least they were out of range for grapeshot, that was a comfort.
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Holbrooke felt as though he was at the centre of a gathering drama. The flatboats were clustered now around the frigate Pallas where Howe had shifted his flag for the assault. The third and fourth rates were anchored two miles offshore along with all the transports. From that position the French would be uncertain whether the landing would be at Cherbourg or anywhere five miles either side. The bombs were anchored a mile-and-a-half offshore for their bombardment and the frigates and sloops were gathering to the west ready to start their approach to cover the landings.
‘There’s the prep,’ said Holbrooke, watching the flag soar up to the masthead of Pallas.
Five minutes to go. Treganoc gave a few orders to the oarsmen, two strokes starboard, a stroke larboard, backwater starboard, to keep the bows pointing south.
‘Any moment now…’ said Overton, fighting to hide his nervousness. One or two of the soldiers shifted uneasily in their seats, and some knees jigged with a life of their own, but otherwise they sat with the infinite patience of their calling. The oarsmen spat on their hands and rolled their shoulders, ready for the outpouring of energy that they knew would be required.
‘Signal’s executed, Mister Treganoc, take us in.’
‘Give way!’ Treganoc called to the stroke oar, the man who’d given him the cushion. Treganoc wasn’t sitting on it now and neither was Holbrooke sitting on his, they needed to stand to see over the heads of the soldiers. It wa
s horribly exposed, and the commander and the marine lieutenant had just made themselves the most vulnerable people in the boat. Holbrooke noticed that Overton had wisely decided to stay seated. The number six boat was extended on his starboard side and the numbers seven and eight followed the leaders two boat lengths astern. Holbrooke had deliberately put himself nearest the danger.
‘Easy!’ called Treganoc.
The stroke oar eased back on the power and the other oarsmen followed him. Holbrooke waved to the number six flatboat to slow down, then repeated the signal to the other two. He wanted to conserve the rowers’ energy until the guns on Querqueville fired. That would be the time to stretch out. There was a theory going around the squadron that it may be better to approach the beach as though the boats were tacking, making a turn of four or five points every few minutes to throw off the French gunners’ aim. The counter theory said that all that would be achieved would be to spend longer in the killing zone. Both hypotheses had merit, but they failed to address the morale factor. These soldiers needed no fancy manoeuvres; they were out of their element on the water and wanted nothing more than to feel firm ground under their boots. Rapid and direct was the only option.
Holbrooke heard a sound like the rotten stitches of an old sail being pulled apart. A plume of water rose astern, conjured into life only to instantly subside, leaving a patch of disturbed water and a plume of spray blowing away on the wind. There was another ahead and yet another on the larboard side. Three guns had fired. He could imagine the difficulty of traversing the guns fast enough to keep up with the crossing rate of the target. Holbrooke was about to make the problem a whole magnitude greater. He nodded at Treganoc.
‘Now men! Stretch out for all you’re worth,’ Treganoc shouted. ‘Show them how it’s done, stroke oar!’
The flatboat leapt forward over the rippling waves. Treganoc’s full attention was upon the steering now. The boats performed most shockingly as their flat bows lifted clear of the water, it took the utmost concentration to keep them on course.
The second salvo came in. There were four splashes this time, all astern of the flatboats. The battery commander hadn’t imagined that their speed would increase so rapidly and it was almost impossible to correct their aim once they were loaded and ready. Far better, Holbrooke knew from experience, to let the battery fire and try to aim better with the next salvo.
The point was coming closer now. Holbrooke was straining to make out his head mark. He’d seen it often enough before, but even a slight change in the aspect could make it hard to identify. It should be just to the left of that clump of trees…
‘I have our head mark, Mister Treganoc. Steer half a point to larboard.’
He had to remember that he wasn’t steering a single flatboat but a rectangular formation thirty-five yards in width and forty-five yards in length. The gap between the rocks was only sixty yards so he needed to keep close to the larboard side – and that meant close to the guns.
It was just a little difficult waiting for the third salvo. The gunners knew the speed of the flatboats now and they knew exactly where they were heading. Again, the sound of rotten stitching being pulled apart. Three of the splashes were right in among Holbrooke’s division. He looked behind, the boat following him, number seven, was in trouble. Had it been hit? No, but a ball had fallen among the larboard oar blades. It looked like two of the oars were damaged. The boat kept moving as the seamen jettisoned the broken oars and pulled the two spares from underneath the gang-boards. No lasting damage then, but that boat was far out of station now. Better to keep going and let it catch up, Holbrooke thought.
Were they too far into the bay for the fort’s guns to reach them? Holbrooke thought so, but the laggard boat was still in danger, and now it would have four guns firing at it.
Holbrooke turned around in time to see the boat disappear amongst the splashes as the battery vented its fury upon this last remaining target. He held his breath, and then he saw the flatboat emerging from the spray apparently undamaged.
Focus now on the gap.
‘You can see the headmark, Mister Treganoc?’
‘Yes, sir. I’m keeping it a hair on my starboard bow to keep to larboard of the gap.’
Holbrooke could see the rocks now, and so could Treganoc. Better to let the marine lieutenant con the boat through the gap; he was in the best place to ensure that he left enough space to starboard for the number six boat.
They sped through the space between the partly submerged rocks and as they emerged Holbrooke spread his arms side to side, an emphatic order for the numbers seven and eight boats to move up onto the wings.
‘Let them catch up,’ he said to Treganoc.
The stroke oar eased a little and the bows of the flatboat dropped. Steering suddenly became easier although it still made a longboat appear the model of good behaviour.
There was a battery of field guns to the west, but they’d probably been under orders to leave the east end of the beach to the fort. They were banging away at the boats to Holbrooke’s right; for the time being no artillery was bothering his division.
Now he could see puffs of smoke from the earthworks at the top of the beach. Some undisciplined militia were firing before the boats were decently in range.
Holbrooke looked to his right; the four boats were in line abreast. With a vigorous forward motion of his arm, Holbrooke gave the order to make for the beach at maximum speed.
The oarsmen gave a cheer that was echoed by the musketeers and the flatboats sped towards the shore.
Half a cable to go. Splash! The grapnels were released from the transoms.
They weren’t exactly in line abreast, nor was their spacing even, but nevertheless they made a brave spectacle as their flat prows mounted the wet sand and their momentum carried them clear of the waves. The bang of the swivel gun startled Holbrooke even though it had been in his orders. There was only one opportunity for the swivels to contribute, and that was before the grenadiers had landed, so he’d ordered that they should fire at the best target they could see, or at nothing at all if there was no target. There was value in firing the first shot; it gave the grenadiers a taste of powder-smoke.
All four swivels fired their load of canister towards the defences that were only a hundred yards away now.
‘Gang-boards!’ shouted Holbrooke, and the four oarsmen at the bows ran the deal planks out over the bows and dropped them onto the cleats that had been made to hold them in place. Holbrooke’s planks, he remembered as he saw the other boats of his division deploy their own.
The drummer started his steady beat. Overton and the sergeant-major had scrambled to the bows and were first ashore. The sergeant-major’s halberd directed the grenadiers; those from the larboard side wheeled around and formed a long rank on the sand. The men who’d been sitting on the starboard side formed the second rank behind them. As if by magic, the grenadiers from number six boat extended the line further to the right. It was far less than two minutes before the company was in position, and further to the right, the second company had also formed up. Captain Overton strode purposely into the gap between the companies, followed by the sergeant-major. There was no sign of nerves now; it must have been the anticipation rather than the reality that unsettled him.
‘The First and Second companies of the Thirty-Fourth will advance ten paces. Quick March!’
The drum sounded ten beats as the whole body of soldiers moved forward. A man in the front rank fell, the first casualty of this day, he was utterly ignored by his fellows.
‘Halt!’ the sergeant-major shouted. All hundred men stopped together.
At the top of the beach, the French militia could be seen abandoning their defensive positions in the face of this overwhelming force.
The sergeant-major went through the litany of orders for the front rank to present their weapons. There was a breathless moment as the sergeants adjusted the aim of those who were overcome by the occasion.
Another man fell, well ove
r to the right of the line.
‘Fire!’
The two companies disappeared briefly in the cloud of powder smoke. It had barely cleared before the second rank fired over the kneeling front rank.
‘Fix bayonets!’
‘The First and Second Companies will charge to the front!’
The sergeant-major stepped back and Overton moved four steps forward. He drew his sword.
‘Charge!’
A great cheer from a hundred pairs of lungs powered the two companies on their way. Yet it was to little avail. All that could be seen of the militia was blue-clad figures withdrawing rapidly inland. The eastern end of the beach at Saint-Marais Bay had been captured for the loss of two grenadiers.
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Holbrooke had seen all that he needed to see. The urgent need now was to reinforce the grenadiers and guards who had secured the beach. Once more he had to run the gauntlet of the guns of the Querqueville battery, but that second wave, the grenadiers of Lambton’s regiment, provided the force that was needed to take the fort. Again, the French saw no purpose in standing to be massacred and they withdrew in good order towards Cherbourg as the Thirty-Fourth and the Sixty-Eighth formed up for the attack.
Six times that day Holbrooke led his division back to the beach, loaded with the musketeers of the Thirty-Fourth regiment, then the Sixty-Eighth, then the stores that they needed to sustain themselves, then the ammunition and all the other logistic requirements for an army going into action. When the battalions and their stores had all been put ashore, he ferried ammunition for the artillery. It was indeed a long day, but as a breeze came in from the southwest, they were able to sail back from the beach each time, although they still had to row in. A long day, but at the end of it, Bligh’s army held a foothold on French soil and in the morning, they would march on Cherbourg.
