by Chris Durbin
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21: September Gales
Saturday, Ninth of September 1758.
Kestrel, at Sea. Off Saint-Malo.
The first gale of September had come booming in from the west, a foretaste of the changing weather as summer gave way to autumn. Howe’s squadron was again on the coast of France, caught unawares in this Gulf of Saint-Malo and battling now for survival on the lee shore. Kestrel was well offshore having been sent to the north as a screen against French commerce raiders hoping to snap up a disabled transport or a storeship heading home. The sloop was lying to under fore-and-aft sails and the watch on deck was huddled under the gunwales. Only the lookouts kept their lonely vigil, relieved at every glass by fresh eyes.
‘I’m trying to tally up the profit and loss of these expeditions,’ said Chalmers. ‘Would you tell me again how many vessels were destroyed at Cherbourg?’
The chaplain was wedged into a chair in the cabin, and the chair itself was lashed between two ringbolts. Every lee lurch stretched the lashings and the knots, making a sixteenth of an inch more play each time. It would soon be advisable to call Serviteur to tighten the lashings, but that would mean that Chalmers would have to move, and he was perfectly comfortable where he was. Another fifteen minutes, he thought.
‘Well we sunk, burned or made prizes of about thirty vessels,’ Holbrooke replied. ‘Three of them were substantial ships but the rest were snows and brigs and some smaller craft.’
He’d been sent ashore by the commodore to supervise burning the vessels at the wharves and the timber-built warehouses. It had been a simple task to prepare them and set them alight. He’d seen ships burn before, but it had always been under fire. Somehow this cold-blooded destruction of merchantmen alongside the wharves seemed more like arson than warfare. He couldn’t stop thinking about the livelihoods that were being laid waste by his actions.
‘I saw with my own eyes the levelling of the port facilities, so that must count in the balance,’ Chalmers added.
The army engineers had dealt with the masonry structures. The pier, the docks, all the loading wharves, the magazines, five different forts and a dozen batteries, all were torn apart and where they were too massive, they were blown asunder by well-laid charges of gunpowder.
‘And the guns that were carried away, a hundred and fifty pieces in all, I understand. Then if we combine that with the damage at Saint-Malo in June, three ships-of-the-line, twenty-odd privateers and sixty merchantmen, we come up with a substantial tally.’
‘Don’t forget that a foreign army was roaming the French countryside for some days each time. I don’t imagine that was without cost to the inhabitants,’ Holbrooke replied.
‘Indeed, and the tales of wanton destruction make for unpleasant hearing,’ Chalmers said reflectively.
‘On the debit side, a good portion of the Channel Fleet has been taken away from its normal employment and the navy board has chartered what? A hundred and thirty storeships and transports? A very great number in any case. Then there’s the army. I believe the least we’ve had this summer is twelve line battalions and nine squadrons of dragoons, not to mention the artillery and engineers.’
‘What’s your conclusion then, David? Are we the winners or losers?’
Chalmers thought for a moment, tapping his finger gently on the table as his chair continued to work at its lashings.
‘If, and I say if, the army can take Saint-Malo this time and hold it long enough to deal with it in the same way that Cherbourg was served, then I believe we may say that Britain is only marginally the loser.’
Chalmers saw that Holbrooke was about to object and he held up his hand to prevent him interrupting.
‘Also, if we have forced the French to withdraw regiments from Germany, then we may say that we are slightly in credit, although that will be a difficult thing to prove.’
Holbrooke saw Serviteur in the scullery and hailed him over. He could see that Chalmers would end up in a heap against the leeward side of the cabin if his chair wasn’t soon secured.
‘That’s all very well, David, and I can’t fault your credit and debit account, but you sound like a clerk rather than a chaplain. Sure, in the hard game of profit and loss, it’s difficult to justify these descents. Yet there’s more to the art of war than numbers. Don’t forget the morale effect of having a foreign army marching unimpeded on your soil. France, particularly, is not used to suffering invasion, and here they are, impotent in the face of a mere eight thousand British soldiers. Imagine what our parliament would have to say about it if Britain suffered such an attack! The government would be toppled in a day’
Chalmers looked cunning, as he did when he was about to announce a checkmate.
‘That’s true, my dear Mister Holbrooke, and parliament would certainly be a factor if these descents – these raids – were on the south coast of England. But they’re not, they’re in France, and France has no regular body such as parliament to hold the government to account.’
Chalmers was becoming agitated in his eloquence; his face was flushed, and he was stabbing the table with his forefinger.
‘King Louis doesn’t have to keep looking over his shoulder and gauging the reactions of a few hundred commoners each time there is a twist in the story of this war. He can force through his own strategy to the bitter end, or until he runs out of his money and his subjects’ money.’
‘Then you believe this is all futile?’
‘Yes, probably. Oh, Commodore Howe is putting his heart and soul into it, and the foot soldiers march where they’re told, but I don’t detect much enthusiasm from the general or his staff. Do they have somewhere they’d rather be, do you think?’
Holbrooke laughed. ‘Oh, that’s for certain. There’s a British army being sent into Germany through Emden. That’s where the real soldiering’s to be done, that’s where the glory is. You know that the duke called in every ounce of influence that he had to be relieved of these raids and given a command in Germany? The new man, General Bligh, has no desire for this duty and neither does his staff, and I think you may be right, that lack of enthusiasm infects the rank and file.’
‘Breaking windows with guineas, indeed,’ said Chalmers with finality.
◆◆◆
Sometimes, it was depressing spending time with Chalmers, Holbrooke thought, and yet he spoke the truth without fear or favour and would do so at the highest level if he were invited. For himself, Holbrooke was satisfied with the way the last month had gone. He knew that he’d performed well in the landings at Saint-Marais and he’d heard from Captain Campbell that it hadn’t gone unnoticed by the commodore. If he needed proof that his stock was rising, he had it in the orders that again gave him command of a division of flatboats to withdraw the army from Cherbourg and then again for the landings at Saint-Lunaire a few miles west of Saint-Malo. This second attempt at Saint-Malo had started well and the soldiers had been landed with little opposition. They were now marching east towards the town and perhaps this time they would be successful. It was certainly possible, but Holbrooke worried about how they would cross the Rance, its broad estuary lying between them and Saint-Malo. The squadron could hardly help, the guns on Cézembre Island were still in place and the ring of forts around the town had been reinforced rather than diminished. Holbrooke just hoped that General Bligh knew what he was about.
Nevertheless, it was comforting to know that he’d redeemed his reputation with Commodore Howe. It would only take a modicum of goodwill for his name to appear alongside the post-captains who had commanded divisions of flatboats at two landings, and he hoped not without good cause that Campbell would see that Howe remembered.
He was also pleased to know that Lynton had behaved well in his absence. He’d risen to the challenge of command. He hadn’t run the sloop ashore and nor had there been a mutiny. Holbrooke’s greatest fear had been that Fairview would have tried to take advantage of the situation, to usurp a portion of the command responsibility, but it seemed t
hat all had gone well. In fact, his two principal subordinates showed every sign of being on better terms of mutual respect than they had ever been.
The only cloud on this glittering horizon was his inability to cement his relationship with Ann. After Cherbourg the squadron had returned to England, but to an anchorage off Portland, not to Spithead. It was deemed an easier place from which to return to France if the wind was in the west. True enough, but it meant that he and Ann had communicated only by letter and hadn’t seen each other for two months. Two months! And that while Kestrel was operating in home waters.
There was another angle that had just occurred to Holbrooke. Was it such a good idea to be known in the navy as a sea officer who understood the management of boats? For the post-captains it would do no harm, they were secure in their ships-of-the-line and frigates. But for a master and commander…
◆◆◆
Even through the planks of the deck above his head, Holbrooke heard the cry of Sail ho! He’d barely risen from his chair when there was a knock on the door, followed by a very wet midshipman.
‘Mister Lynton’s compliments, sir, sail in sight to the south,’ he said, holding his round hat in his hand. ‘The lookout believes it’s a cutter beating up to us from the squadron, sir.’
‘Very well. My compliments to Mister Lynton and I’ll be up directly.’
He turned to Chalmers who was having difficulty extricating himself from the chair that was now so tightly attached to the deck and the table that there was no space for a body to squeeze past its arms.
‘If you’ll excuse me David. No, do stay in the cabin, if you wish. I believe Serviteur has some coffee brewing.’
By the time Holbrooke reached the quarterdeck, the cutter’s gaff tops’l could be seen from the deck. She was hard on the wind with only her mains’l, tops’l and heads’ls showing, and she was making her way north as fast as the opposing wind would allow. In fifteen minutes, she was under Kestrel’s lee and the lieutenant in command was leaning far out through the weather shrouds, using a speaking trumpet to pass his message.
‘Orders from the commodore, sir. You’re to rejoin and prepare to command a division of boats to take the army off the shore.’
This was terrible news. If they’d taken Saint-Malo, they certainly wouldn’t be withdrawing so soon. A French field army must be marching to the Brittany coast to cause this rapid retreat.
‘To Saint-Lunaire?’ replied Holbrooke. His words carried easily downwind to the cutter.
‘No, sir. It’s too exposed. Saint-Cast, further west. You’re to make all haste, sir, begging your pardon, and you’re to report to the commodore for orders.’
Saint-Cast! It was undoubtedly better sheltered than Saint-Lunaire where Bligh and his army had been put ashore, but it was a long march from Saint-Malo, probably twenty miles allowing detours for the rivers. Holbrooke could imagine the naval imperatives that were causing this change of plan. This westerly gale didn’t look as though it would subside soon, and even when it did, the exposed beach at Saint-Lunaire would be difficult, and the anchorage positively dangerous. He could only speculate what had happened on land.
‘Get her underway, Mister Fairview,’ he said to the master who had appeared unbidden on the quarterdeck. ‘Set a course for Saint-Cast, sou’west by south should be about right, I believe.’
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Holbrooke met the flagship long before he saw Saint-Cast. The westerly wind was trying its best to prevent the squadron of men-of-war and the vast fleet of transports from moving the five miles across the bay, it was dead to windward. Howe was forced to stand far out into the channel before beating back into the new anchorage. So far out that he needed to put his escort force into its proper formation to protect the main body of the convoy, and that was causing mayhem. The masters of the transports and storeships didn’t know why they were putting out to sea again – there had been no time to pass the word around them all – and they obstinately refused to stay in formation. Howes frigates and sloops were ranging far and wide bringing in the lost sheep, and like any flock, when one decided to stray, the idea infected all the others. It was less like a convoy than a haphazard collection of ships, each master intent on steering the course that he saw fit.
‘Under the flagship’s lee, Mister Fairview,’ said Holbrooke, studying the figures on Essex’s deck through his telescope. He could see the commodore and Campbell, but neither was looking at him, they were looking earnestly to windward, presumably willing the gale to abate. Holbrooke had seen Saint-Cast once, and he’d studied the chart; it was an obvious choice if they had to land an army in a westerly gale; or to recover an army. It had a smooth sandy beach between protective rocky outcrops, and it offered the only real shelter from a westerly within a march this side of Saint-Malo. Nevertheless, it was an act of desperation. Immense and overwhelming though Bligh’s army appeared, it couldn’t stand against a French force of the size that King Louis was likely to send against it. Its only refuge lay in the ships that had put it ashore, and now they were moving far from Saint-Malo. It was uncomfortable at sea in this first of the autumn gales, but on land, with no shelter except the peasant huts that the lucky few could commandeer, it would be miserable. By now, not a man of the army would be dry. There would be sore feet and raging fevers in the ranks, damp powder and a long march to an uncertain deliverance.
‘Captain Holbrooke,’ shouted Campbell when they were in the flagship’s lee, ‘we’re to bring the army off at Saint-Cast. You’re to have a division again.’
‘Tomorrow, sir?’ replied Holbrooke having to use the speaking trumpet against the howling wind.
‘Perhaps,’ Campbell replied. ‘It depends on how fast the army marches. Some at least will be there tomorrow. You’re to come aboard Essex as soon as the weather moderates, or tomorrow morning at the latest.’
Both knew the absurdity of that order. This westerly had at least two more days of life before it blew itself out and a transfer by boat in this weather was all but suicide. If they could reach the shelter of Saint-Cast bay by tomorrow morning it would be possible, but otherwise Holbrooke would be bound to his ship.
Fairview was demonstrating his mastery of his trade by keeping the sloop close alongside the much larger third rate. It was an interesting problem with Essex’s broad sails blanking the wind while her high sides protected Kestrel from the worst of the sea.
‘There’s a French army on the march, Holbrooke.’
He was no soldier, but nonetheless that news chilled him.
‘Stay in signalling range,’ Campbell shouted and then waved for Kestrel to move into her night station.
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‘No night for campaigning, sir,’ Treganoc said, his body just a dim shape to leeward of the binnacle.
‘No, I expect not,’ Holbrooke replied then realised that it sounded as though he were cutting off the conversation. ‘What will be the state of the army tonight, do you think?’
The lean figure of Treganoc moved into the dim illumination of the compass light. He was a seasoned seafarer but still he had difficulty keeping his footing in this short, steep sea. He steadied himself with one hand on the binnacle.
‘If I understand it correctly, they were probably stopped at the Rance with no way of getting across. They’d have moved upstream, but the French will have destroyed the bridges. Eventually they’d have had word of the forward elements of a French army and decided quite correctly that they are in no fit state to fight a general field engagement. That’s when they’d have sent a message to Mister Howe to be ready to take them off.’
Holbrooke grimaced in the dark. He could picture it all too well.
‘That would have been the last thing that the commodore wanted to hear,’ said Holbrooke. ‘He’d have been relying on the gale blowing through so that he could use Saint-Lunaire to embark the army. He’d have had to make a fast decision to divert them west to Saint-Cast, the nearest beach with shelter from a westerly.’
‘It
’s strange, isn’t it, how each of the services finds it so difficult to imagine the constraints that the other is subject to. I don’t imagine General Bligh or any of his staff imagined that the weather could prevent them using the same beach that they landed on to re-embark.’
‘And there won’t be many people on Howe’s staff who can imagine the difficulties of withdrawing across a hostile territory in this weather with the French army snapping at your heels. You marines have the advantage of seeing both sides.’
Treganoc smiled in the darkness, his teeth showing momentarily white in the gloom.
‘You’ll be my coxswain again, Mister Treganoc?’
‘I will if you’ll have me, sir.’
‘I don’t believe this will be as easy as the last time we cut this caper. We may yet look back at the guns of Querqueville with nostalgia!’
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Through that long, dark night Kestrel kept her station to windward of the squadron. They tacked in the middle watch and as the day dawned and the marks on the land started to be identified, those responsible for the navigation of the squadron began to have faith that they could fetch Saint-Cast on this tack. In fact, with the tide set to turn at three bells in the morning watch, possibly they’d be able to bear away a little.
They reached the blessed shelter of Cape Frehel before the forenoon watch was called. The sea abated dramatically but the wind continued its howling. The swell still swung around the cape, but it was no longer breaking, and it was striking their quarters rather than their bows, an altogether more comfortable motion.
