by Chris Durbin
‘Masthead! Can you see any other sails apart from the convoy?’ shouted Carlisle.
‘Nothing sir. I can see the first few merchantmen but nothing of Shark and the others.’
The stranger could be seen clearly from the deck now. They were on converging courses, and it certainly looked as though Medina and her convoy hadn’t yet been seen. She was a medium frigate, perhaps the same size and armament as Medina, but somewhat higher in the water. She certainly looked French. The range was about seven cables and closing.
‘Mister Moxon. Put a shot across her bows. Not too close in case she’s a friend.’
Bang! In the few seconds between the order and the execution, Carlisle had switched his attention from gunnery back to the urgent need to identify the stranger. The first shot caught him by surprise, as it always did, even though he’d ordered it.
The night was too dark and the range too great to make out individual figures, but as Carlisle’s night-vision recovered from the sudden flash, he could see a change in the shape of the dark mass on her quarterdeck that indicated people moving about.
‘The chase is bearing away, sir,’ shouted Whittle.
Carlisle could see for himself that the stranger – Whittle’s premature use of the word chase was another example of how an opinioned hail could change perceptions on deck – had come four or five points off the wind, showing Medina her quarter. That was a normal reaction if they hadn’t seen Medina until she’d fired her warning shot.
‘Mister Hosking, bear away and put the stranger two points on our starboard bow. You may set the t’gallants. Let’s see if we can get close enough to identify her.’
‘Should I make the enemy in sight signal, sir,’ asked Moxon, looking like a man desperately trying to be helpful. He was aware that he hadn’t covered himself in glory when the stranger was first sighted.
‘No, Mister Moxon.’
Carlisle thought of leaving it there with a flat negative but realised that he was doing nothing for the esteem and authority of his second-in-command.
‘If we make the signal, then Shark will leave the convoy to join us. I want her to stay with the convoy in case we don’t return quickly. A single gun won’t bring her, but the night signal will,’ added Carlisle with his telescope trained on the fast receding sails of the presumed enemy.
‘Aye-aye sir,’ replied the first lieutenant.
‘Sir, the signal’s already lit,’ said the quartermaster, jerking his head upwards. He’d been shamelessly listening to the officer’s talking and grabbed the opportunity to be the first to point out the first lieutenant’s failure. There was no love lost between the raw, hesitant second-in-command and the old and wise quartermaster.
Carlisle looked up. The night signals lanterns were designed so that the illumination was directed horizontally with a minimum of leakage downwards. Nevertheless, the two red lights could be clearly seen from the quarterdeck and Carlisle realised that Shark – if she were no more than two miles astern – would undoubtedly see them, if the lookouts were awake.
‘Douse those lights!’ shouted Moxon in horror.
‘Wait!’ shouted Carlisle. He knew that anything attempted at night could rapidly descend into chaos, particularly if orders were given without thinking.
Carlisle heard a dull thud from somewhere astern. That would be Shark acknowledging the signal. His snap decision to keep the signal up once it was lit was vindicated. If he could be sure that Shark hadn’t seen it, then it would have been worth dousing the lanterns, but once the sloop had been alerted, the sudden disappearance of the signal would create doubt.
‘Keep the signal showing, Mister Moxon, but direct it astern.’
The new lanterns could be shielded so that the light showed only through half the compass, there was no value in giving the stranger a point of reference on this dark night.
‘Mister Hosking, we’ll chase for a while, but I don’t want to stray too far from the convoy. Let me know if you lose sight of her and if you see Shark.’
Carlisle took one more look around the dim horizon.
‘Mister Moxon, would you join me in the cabin?’
***
6: The Chase
Monday, Thirteenth of March 1758.
Medina, at Sea. Cape Henry West-Southwest 26 leagues.
The interview with Moxon had taken longer than Carlisle had anticipated. In one sense, it was entirely the wrong time to berate his second-in-command, with a chase in sight and the prospect of the frigate going into action. However, Carlisle knew that if he left it until this incident was over, his remonstration would lose its impact. Tomorrow, with the chase either withdrawn or brought to action, the near disaster of the night signal would be but a memory, whereas tonight it was fresh in both their minds.
Carlisle believed – rather, he hoped – that he’d made an impression on Moxon. That was the easy part, the difficult follow-up was for his first lieutenant to impose some order into the working of the frigate. The problem stemmed from a lack of leadership; the people just didn’t believe that Moxon was any sort of a substitute for Holbrooke. He didn’t have his predecessor’s experience of battle or of seamanship, but neither of those was essential; half the lieutenants in the navy had never seen action and had spent most of their career at fleet anchorages in ships-of-the-line. No, the critical point was that the people ignored him, when they didn’t covertly mock him. Carlisle remembered what Shakespeare wrote:
Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon 'em.
The lines were written as part of a comedy, but they were a useful way of understanding Moxon’s development as a sea-officer. He wasn’t endowed with natural leadership, and he appeared unable to learn it. Would he develop it in the stress of storm, fire or combat? Carlisle couldn’t guess, but it was perhaps his first lieutenant’s only hope of making his way in the service.
The incident with the night signal was caused by Whittle’s freestyle reporting. His publicly declared opinion that the stranger was a Frenchman, then his reporting of a chase had led the able seaman in the foretop to expect an order to light the enemy in sight signal. His disrespect for the first lieutenant showed in his not waiting for the order but taking it upon himself to light the lamps and hoist them aloft. There were several factors in the chain of events, but they all stemmed from a lasseiz-faire attitude that had infected Carlisle’s command since Holbrooke had been promoted into a sloop and sent back to Portsmouth with dispatches.
The man who had lit the lanterns would need to be punished. It wasn’t a flogging offence, but a week as captain of the heads – a euphemism for the cleaner of the men’s seats of ease – would reinforce the point. Moxon, of course, wouldn’t be publicly punished nor criticised, but Carlisle’s inclination to recommend him for promotion was decreasing by the day.
***
Carlisle lingered in his cabin after Moxon left. How he missed Holbrooke! He remembered how he’d initially despaired of making anything of the young master’s mate who’d been wished on him by the man’s father, an old sailing master from a long-ago commission.
He could date Holbrooke’s turnaround from the first time that he’d been given any real responsibility. It was when he needed someone to systematically keep a tally of the French squadron and invasion force in Toulon Road. From there had come the decision to send him away in an independent command – a small vessel to take dispatches back to Port Mahon – which led to a more permanent command of an armed barca-longa and thence to his promotion to lieutenant. Sadly, he just couldn’t see Moxon making that transition. He feared that letting his first lieutenant out of his sight with a valuable vessel and even more precious men would only end in the loss of both.
A knock on the door heralded Midshipman Angelini.
‘Mister Hosking’s compliments, sir,’ he said in his still-accented English. ‘We’re closing slowly on the chase, she’s about a mile on the starboard bow, and Shark’s in sight on the starboard quarter, abo
ut a mile and a half.’
‘Very well Mister Angelini. You may tell the master that I’ll be on deck directly.’
Shark had done well to close them so quickly, but he’d have preferred that she stay with the merchantmen. When the sloop was within hailing range, he’d have to order Anderson back to the convoy, but he didn’t want to lose contact with the chase by waiting for Shark to catch up. It was the classic dilemma of the convoy escort commander: to pursue the enemy and reduce that threat before it could do any harm would in the meantime leave the convoy unprotected, and who knew what lay below the horizon?
***
It took a few moments for Carlisle to regain his night vision. He could see the chase – for a chase it now most certainly was – just where Enrico had reported it, and he could barely make out Shark with a press of sail hurrying to join his commander.
‘Mister Gordon. Can you annoy her at this range?’ he asked the gunner, who had been loitering at arm’s reach for just such an opportunity.
Gordon was a young man for a master gunner. He’d joined in Port Royal just before they’d sailed, and he hadn’t had much opportunity to display his skills, but he came well recommended from Augusta.
‘Annoy him I certainly can, sir,’ he replied, rubbing his hands in anticipation. ‘I can’t promise we’ll hit him and at this range and if we do, we won’t do much damage, but at least we may provoke him.’
‘Then pray do so, Mister Gordon. The for’rard guns should bear but let me know if you need me to come off a point.’
The gunner jumped down into the waist and ran to where his precious numbers one and three guns waited under the fo’c’sle, invisible from the quarterdeck.
Gordon was able to train his two guns for’rard enough and very soon they came into action, banging away steadily. The master gunner was evidently having difficulty seeing his target in the darkness and was taking his time to allow the smoke to clear. It was too dark to see the fall of shot, so the fine work of adjusting each round to creep closer and closer to the target was just impossible. The master gunner was right; a hit was unlikely.
Carlisle stood alone on the weather side of the quarterdeck, feeling the wind on his check and watching the chase, trying to put himself into the mind of his opponent. He cast a critical eye over the sails but could think of nothing that would make them draw better or give the frigate an extra knot of speed. Hosking watched him warily. The master knew that Medina was moving as fast as she’d ever done, and the last cast of the log showed eleven knots.
‘Why’s she running from us, sir,’ Hosking asked, observing the dim outline of the chase through his telescope. The moon had set half an hour before, but the cloud cover was starting to thin and the stars gave a faint illumination.
‘I was wondering the same thing, Master. She can’t have seen Shark yet and perhaps hasn’t even sighted the convoy. She probably believes we’re a lone frigate on our innocent occasions.’
‘Then her captain must be a poltroon,’ said Hosking, ‘to refuse battle with a frigate of equal force.’
‘She’s French of course,’ said Carlisle, ‘and that could explain it.’
Hosking looked sharply at his captain. He’d never heard him damn a whole nation in that way, and he’d often commented at the spirited way in which his French adversaries fought. Carlisle correctly interpreted the look.
‘No, Master, I don’t mean that all Frenchmen are cowards. But because they’re short of merchantmen – most of ‘em have been taken by our privateers – they often strip the guns from their frigates to make more space for stores, and they have a more rigorous view of their mission than we do. If it conflicts with the orders he’s been given, that French captain – I’m assuming he’s French – will certainly avoid fighting us.’
Hosking made a non-committal noise deep in his throat. ‘Or he could know all about the convoy and be drawing us away while his friends fill their boots with our merchantmen.’
‘It’s a risk, sure, but I don’t believe it,’ replied Carlisle thoughtfully. ‘We didn’t see a single sail after we cleared the Capes and it’s conceding too much to French intelligence to suggest that he knew our departure plans. No, I believe this is a chance encounter. In fact, I’d bet that our friend over there is on his way to the same place as us. He’s on passage to resupply the garrison at Louisbourg and is armed en flute to cram in as much cargo as possible. He’ll keep on running east until we must turn back. But in the meantime, if he doesn’t know that we have a convoy to protect, he’ll assume that we’ll chase him all night.’
‘Twilight’s not ‘till half past five. He has plenty of time to lose us if the sky clouds over.’
Carlisle nodded. He’d imagined it would be something like that, but it was good to hear the exact times.
‘Well, there’s little more that we can do for now. Let’s allow the gunner to bang away while he can. I do believe we’re moving a little faster than him,’ he said nodding at the dim shape on their starboard bow, ‘what do you think?’
‘Barely, sir, barely. Unless we can slow him down, we won’t catch him before the morning watch.’
‘Then let’s look to our tacks and sheets, Mister Hosking.’
***
They chased all through the first and middle watches, a long chase with little to show but overheated guns and tired men. It appeared that they scored at least two hits, but at that range, with mere nine-pound balls they couldn’t expect much. There’d been no return fire from the Frenchman, tending to confirm the theory that her guns were struck below. In that case, it was a certainty that she was ordered to relieve Louisbourg or perhaps to sail up the St. Lawrence to Quebec. In any case, she was bound for Île Royale or New France.
Shark had moved into hailing range at midnight and Carlisle had promptly sent the sloop back to look after the convoy. At least it wouldn’t be a hard beat for Anderson. According to Hosking’s calculation, Shark would be able to sail a point free on the larboard tack and should be back with her charges before dawn. The convoy must have spent an uncomfortable night, hearing rather than seeing their escort disappear to leeward accompanied by a steady discharge of cannon fire. What they would do if dawn found them alone on the sea was anyone’s guess.
***
Eight bells sounded and, as if by magic, a thick blanket of cloud started to snuff out the stars one-by-one. Over to the east there was not even the faintest of a pre-dawn glow; it was hard to imagine that the rising sun would offer any light. It was pitch dark, and the chase had disappeared. The bow guns ceased their monotonous firing, and an eerie silence fell over the deck
‘We won’t see her again for an hour or two,’ said Hosking, hanging his telescope on the hook on the side of the binnacle. There was an air of finality to his action; clearly, the master thought they’d seen the last of the chase. Carlisle agreed. The Frenchman could turn to the north or the south, or he could stand on. With this fresh breeze, in an hour he could be twelve miles away; twenty-four if Carlisle chose poorly and their courses diverged.
‘Set a course to rejoin the convoy, Mister Hosking,’ he said, trying to keep the resignation from his voice. It had always been questionable whether this chase far to leeward was a wise decision, but now that there was no better than a fifty-fifty chance that the Frenchman would be in sight at dawn, the balance had tipped. He should be back with the merchantmen.
Medina heeled extravagantly as her bows came around to the north. A capful of spray burst on the mizzen chains and soaked the quartermaster and the steersmen. Gone was the silence of the moonlit run to the east; now they were sailing barely a point free, and the lee gunwale was dipping into the black waves.
‘A reef in the tops’ls, perhaps, sir,’ said Hosking, looking at the bar-taut sheets and aloft at the straining canvas, just visible through the stygian blackness. He and Carlisle were holding onto the larboard hammock cranes to keep themselves from skidding to leeward.
‘No, Mister Hosking. I want to be back with the convoy
in the forenoon watch. We’ll carry this canvas unless the wind freshens. I’ll be in my cabin.’
***
The cabin was in darkness, and for a moment he wondered why his lantern wasn’t lit. Then he remembered his new man. An experienced captain’s servant would have been able to anticipate his master’s return. He’d have felt the frigate haul her wind and have guessed that they had given up the chase. From there, it was no great leap of intellect to deduce that the captain would leave the deck to take some rest. Carlisle felt his way to the seat that ran the width of the cabin under the stern windows. It was padded with oakum and covered in a gay chintz that Chiara had chosen in Kingston. The wind was steady, and the waves were regular. If he lay with his head to larboard – the high side of the seat – he’d be able to get an hour of sleep before the sky started to lighten, when he must be on deck. He stretched out his length and, with nothing visible to claim his attention, he fell asleep, his worries about Chiara and his unborn child forgotten with the mental stimulation of chasing the Frenchman.
Carlisle was in such a deep sleep that his servant had to call three or four times before his master woke.
‘Sir…sir…sir, the first lieutenant reports an hour before dawn. The wind’s steady from the west, and the ship’s under all plain sail.’
‘Very well, I’ll come on deck,’ he replied, shaking himself into wakefulness. It was his own damned standing orders that were to blame. If he hadn’t ordered that the ship would clear for action and the hands go to quarters each morning before the dawn, he could have stayed asleep if he wished. Yet he knew his orders were sound. Many were the man-of-war that had sailed along happily through the night, oblivious to the deadly enemy just a mile away that had revealed itself, well within gun range, at the first light before dawn. In a time of war, in waters where an enemy may reasonably be found, it was a wise precaution to greet the sunrise with loaded guns run out, ready for whatever the growing light reveals.
