The Leeward Islands Squadron, page 11
part #2 of Carlisle & Holbrooke Series
That was when the subtlety of Carlisle’s plan was unveiled. What would the fort think of the schooner? They would immediately conclude that she must be stuffed full of fighting men with the intention of making a frontal assault on the battlements. She would be looking to defend her walls rather than nullify a fire-ship. Another distraction for the harassed French gunners and a few vital minutes gained before the fort’s commander realised his mistake.
Within two minutes the smoke was starting to pour up from the hatches, the draught of air surging in through her scuttled sides became almost visible in its intensity. Carlisle saw Curtis and his three volunteers scramble down the side of the schooner into the jolly boat as the fort’s guns started to raise clouds of splinters from the wrecked craft, bringing down her mainmast, with her sails still set. But it was too late for the fort. Billows of grey smoke were now pouring from the grounded schooner; the rising sea breeze, not yet determined in its direction, diffusing the smoke and carried it in a broad swathe towards the fort only a hundred yards away. In three more minutes, Carlisle could barely see the fort at all; the French artillerymen must have only occasional glimpses of their target as they were hampered by the thick billows of hay-smoke rolling into their gun platforms. They continued to fire, but the shots were wild and the rate of fire even slower than before. The schooner was perfectly visible from the great two-decker, and Carlisle watched as the jolly boat raised a lug sail and after hesitating on the best course to reach safety chose an easy reach over to Medina, rather than a beat into the eye of the wind to meet Wessex. That was clear thinking from Curtis.
***
11: Take, Sink or Burn
Tuesday, twenty-first of December 1756
Medina, at Sea, The Grand Bay
Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world like a Colossus, and we petty men walk under his huge legs and peep about. The lines that Shakespeare put into Cassius’ mouth – in envy of great Caesar – came unbidden to Holbrooke’s conscious mind as he stood on the quarterdeck of Medina, surveying his command. They must have been lurking there, deep below his waking thoughts, ready for this occasion. He had commanded a frigate before, taking the captured Vulcain from the Tyrrhenian Sea back to Gibraltar; a long and anxious passage with contrary winds, a small crew and a damaged ship. But today it was different, today he was taking one of His Majesty’s frigates into action against the French. He had a full crew and an experienced sailing master, who was carefully leaving enough space for the temporary captain – himself, George Holbrooke, as he had to remember – to pace the weather side of the quarterdeck. He had a few moments leisure to think, and the ever-introspective Holbrooke analysed his situation yet again. There was a curious mindset that went with command of a man-of-war, quite distinct from other types of authority. By a single word, he could bring instant ruin to his ship and its two-hundred men. He could put her aground by a misguided helm order, he could carry too much sail and lose a mast, he could apply poor tactical choices and be raked by a broadside. Quite likely none of these highly skilled and experienced people on the quarterdeck would dare to correct him until it was too late. It was like living in a kind of bubble, protected from the usual give-and-take of social intercourse.
If, for example, he ordered a turn of two points to larboard now and the sheets to be hauled in, the master and the quartermaster would instantly respond, and in a very few minutes he would be between Wessex and the enemy, taking the kind of punishment that no frigate was constructed to withstand. Hosking may remonstrate, but probably not. It was a tactical decision and strictly none of his business. People would die, and quite likely, through want of an intact frigate, the whole venture would fail.
If he made a joke, everyone would laugh. If he made a facetious comment, everyone would nod sagely. And he was only the temporary commander of Medina. How must it affect Carlisle, subjected to that kind of deference all day, every day? A Colossus indeed.
***
Medina was following close astern of Wessex as they approached the fort, and both Holbrooke and Hosking were carefully watching the flagship. There would be no formal signal; but as soon as her topsails started to swing around, Holbrooke knew that he must haul aft his own sheets and overtake her to starboard, following close behind Curtis in the schooner, who was waiting for the same cue to start his perilous enterprise. The wind was tricky; Hosking and the quartermaster were anxiously watching the quarterdeck dog-vane and the luffs of the topsails as the sea-breeze began to assert itself. This was vital to Carlisle’s plan. The wind from the sea would blow the smoke from the burning hay down onto the fort.
If the sea-breeze failed, then Carlisle would have to turn away and wait for the change. It all hinged on the rate at which the land heated up as the sun rose. The solid earth reacted more rapidly than the sea to the sun’s heat. Unlike the sea, a fluid element that could move the heat from the surface through vertical currents, the warmed land could not quickly dissipate its heat which instead was trapped in the very top layer. Consequently, the surface of the earth heated up much faster than the surface of the sea, causing a temperature gradient between the two during the day. The air above the land was heated by the earth, rising and creating a temporary low pressure. Wind from the sea rushed in to compensate – that was what mariners meant when they spoke of the sea breeze. On this leeward side of the island, at some point in the morning or forenoon, the sea-breeze would defeat the northeast trade wind, and the conditions would be right to smoke out the fort. The change had started half an hour ago, but it was still fitful. Even at this stage the trade wind could re-assert itself and destroy the squadron’s plan of attack. As Holbrooke watched, the feathers and corks of the dog-vane on the starboard side of the quarterdeck were streaming weakly across the deck. Good enough in Holbrooke’s opinion. The breeze would only grow stronger from now as the full force of the sun hit Grenada’s high land. Hosking thought so too, and he nodded encouragingly in Holbrooke’s direction. What a fickle natural phenomenon on which to hang a strategy that was taking the squadron’s five hundred men into imminent peril. What a testament to the organisation and discipline of the navy that the five hundred men carried out their orders without question.
Medina’s boats were being towed alongside, manned and ready to play their part. The longboat was again ordered to stay close to the frigate in case it became embayed by this rising sea-breeze, while the pinnace and yawl were to pull deep into the bay to sink or burn the small vessels in the inner harbour. The privateers at anchor would be dealt with by Medina’s broadsides.
‘Flagship’s backing her topsails sir,’ reported the master. ‘The way is coming off her … quickly.’ This was as close as Hosking would come to nudging his captain into action and Holbrooke came back to the present with a start. It was too easy as a captain to assume that everything would continue functioning without his intervention. Hosking would be extremely reluctant to alter course without orders while Holbrooke was on the quarterdeck. If Holbrooke was not paying attention, the chain of command was fractured.
‘Very well Mister Hosking. Come to starboard, haul aft the sheets and let’s get at those privateers.’
‘Aye-aye sir.’ He turned to relay the orders, but the bosun and quartermaster had already heard, and the whole intricate structure was in motion. The fo’c’sle, waist and quarterdeck seethed with purposeful energy as the waisters heaved on the sheets to tighten the sails and catch every ounce of the gathering breeze. The steersmen turned the wheel, the quartermaster carefully watching the distance to Wessex’s quarter gallery as the frigate gathered pace and the gap between the two ships narrowed.
‘Away boats,’ called Holbrooke. The painters were slipped, and the pinnace and yawl dropped quickly astern, to turn under Wessex’s quarter and shoot through the gap that was opening between the frigate and the flagship as Medina gathered pace towards her prey.
Holbrooke looked over his shoulder; the fort was shrouded in grey smoke. Not a very thick smoke but sufficient to frustrate the aim of the French artillerymen. They were still firing; he could see the flashes as each gun discharged and a brief thickening of the smoke as the guns added their blacker clouds to the overall gloom. Wessex was firing well, apparently without any significant damage to herself. The flagship’s aim was not affected by the smoke as the outline of the fort was clearly visible, and the orange glare of each French discharge provided excellent aiming points. Wessex was more stable now, lying-to in this friendly breeze and providing a firm platform for accurate gunnery. The flagship’s boats were pulling strongly for the harbour. Her longboat, like Medina’s, lying on her oars to windward, was ready to haul the ship out of the bay if that became necessary. But Holbrooke knew that Carlisle’s dispositions had taken the sea-breeze into account, and the great ship had given itself sufficient sea room to beat out of the bay when their work was done, unless her rigging or sails became damaged, or her rudder was hit.
‘Mister Hosking. Lay us alongside the first privateer at a quarter-cable and hold us there until we have finished with her.’ He took in the whole panorama with a single sweep of his gaze before the work of pounding the frail anchored ships into sinking wrecks took over the main part of his attention. The battle of the fort appeared to be going well, and the boats were pulling fast into the harbour, a few stray shots from the eastern walls of the fort speeding them on their way. But they would soon be too deep into the harbour to be worried by the fort. The jolly-boat was pulling towards Medina, he noticed, but he could ignore that. Curtis would have the sense to come to Medina’s disengaged side, and the bosun would take the boat in tow and bring Curtis and his band of heroes on board. The boats from the privateers had long-since reached the harbour. The three privateers, Holbrooke’s personal objective, lay peacefully at anchor, abandoned by their crews – not a soul could be seen on board.
‘Mister Lynton, hold your fire until we have the first privateer abeam, depress your guns and aim for the waterline, I believe you will receive no fire in return.’
Lynton waved his hat in acknowledgement and turned to his eager gun crews. The cannon of the upper deck had been double-shotted for this first broadside. A nine-pound ball was not large by naval standards and would be of little account in a fleet action, but against the thin planking of a French privateer, and at this range, it would be deadly.
Lynton posed dramatically atop the grating over the main hatch, his sword drawn and his hat in his left hand. The privateer was so close that he could clearly see its masts over Medina’s gunwales and he watched both his guns and his target with hawk-like intensity. The gun crews were poised at their weapons, levering the mountings around with the hand spikes to keep them trained on the enemy as they approached the critical position. The gun captains were alternately watching their target through the gun port, motioning to the crew to train forward or aft and casting glances at Lynton, all the while blowing on their linstocks to keep the match alive. Holbrooke watched as the master’s mate coolly ordered more depression on the number eight gun. Lynton appeared to have it all under control, and Holbrooke turned back to the task of positioning his command for the maximum destructive effect.
It occurred to Holbrooke – even at this critical point as he was about to bring a frigate into action for the first time, his mind still churned away, examining itself – that if he did nothing, gave no more orders, the ship would go into action perfectly well without his further guidance. He had set up the approach to the target, given orders for manoeuvring and engaging, and those things would all happen now without any further intervention from him.
***
Medina was nearly abeam the first privateer, a small, narrow, black-hulled ship-rigged vessel. Holbrooke could see its name picked out in white against the black counter, ‘La Mouette,’ a good name for such a sleek, fast ship, The Seagull. He saw Lynton cast a sideways glance at him. The younger man knew very well that he was to engage without further orders, but Holbrooke was commanding for the first time in an engagement, and this was Lynton’s first time in control of the whole battery. Holbrooke was pleased to see that the glance was intended to confirm that Holbrooke had no new orders, and Lynton turned back to his study of the target and his guns.
La Mouette looked the picture of peace and tranquillity. She was lying almost beam-on to the wind; there must be a current here running from the south to the north across the harbour entrance, the gathering sea-breeze not yet having enough force to swing her to face the sea. Medina’s bows were alongside the privateer’s mainmast, and the way was coming off her as Hosking backed the topsails with his scratch team of waisters, all that was available after the guns and the boats had taken the cream of the crew. Holbrooke hoped that Lynton wouldn’t leave it too late. They would have a limited time in this position as they would be blown gradually down onto the privateer, with little forward movement to give them steerage way. But as Holbrooke considered whether to order Lynton to open fire, the whole broadside discharged simultaneously. A hundred and fourteen pounds of cast iron smashed into La Mouette, every round hitting the unfortunate vessel – they could hardly miss at that range – and at least half of the shot tore large holes in the planking along the waterline. Lynton must have timed that to perfection. Medina was not rolling much, but the little motion that she had would have been enough to cause the shots to strike too high, or worse still to tear up the water between the two ships if they had not fired at the correct moment. The devastation was impressive and immediate. The privateer staggered and started listing to starboard. To starboard! Holbrooke glanced at the height of her masts – yes, there was sufficient distance between the two ships so that even if the privateer capsized, her poles would fall clear of Medina. Clearly, Hosking had the same thought, and he was carefully watching the distance, his fingers drumming nervously against his thigh, as the two ships drifted slowly towards each other.
The second broadside completed the destruction, opening the fragile craft along the waterline for two-thirds of her length. The inrush of water was now distributing itself more evenly in the hold, and she was starting to right herself, but there was no stopping her descent and the water quickly moved up to her gunwales. Holbrooke would not have believed that a ship, even one as small as this frail vessel, could be destroyed so rapidly. He had always assumed that a wooden vessel would float for a long time, even when thoroughly waterlogged. But La Mouette must have had a substantial cargo, perhaps molasses or sugar taken out of a British West Indiaman. In any case, she was doomed. Holbrooke blew a single blast on his whistle before the third broadside could be fired.
‘Mister Hosking, you may move on to the brig now.’
This would be trickier. The privateer brig had swung with the wind and Medina would be approaching across her bow. That slight current must be localised in the main channel where the first privateer had anchored. Holbrooke didn’t want to run down her beam into the harbour mouth, where there was too much chance of being embayed. Although the longboat was waiting to tow them out if necessary, it was far safer to avoid getting the frigate into that dangerous position.
‘Mister Lynton, double-shot the guns again. We will be crossing her bow, so don’t fire a broadside, each gun is to engage independently as it bears. Aim for the cutwater and let’s see if we can open this one up like the last.’
The brig appeared as deserted as the ship had been, but she sank in a much more dramatic fashion after two rounds from each gun had entirely destroyed the massive timbers where her keel rose to become the prow. The butts of the planks were released from their rebates and opened like a peeled banana on either side of the cutwater. The water rushed in, and as the bows settled, the stern rose theatrically. In the end, it was the combined weight of her foremast and the cable suspended below her bows that dragged her down, probably her cargo had shifted also. She pitch-poled and sank rapidly, bows-first, the rush of air blowing out the windows of her modest stern-gallery.
Holbrooke had time to look astern and see that the tops of the masts of the first ship were still visible where she had rested upright on the bottom. The brig, however, disappeared entirely leaving a widening circle of debris – broken planks, hatch gratings, hen-coops, barrels, cordage. It was possible that the French could salvage the ship-rigged privateer – with a lot of effort and expense – but the brig was lost. In both cases, the wrecks must be removed before Port Louis could safely be used again.
‘Cease firing,’ shouted Holbrooke, and then he remembered to blow the single blast on his whistle. But Lynton had already given the order to his crews, the utter destruction of the brig apparent for all to see and there was no point in wasting ammunition.
‘I would like to give her a little sea-room before we start on the next ship, may I bring her to the wind?’ asked Hosking.
‘Yes, master. Please do so,’ replied Holbrooke. He looked back at Wessex. She appeared in good order, and her guns were firing with a steady rhythm, although she had apparently been hit more than once.
The fort was not aiming at Medina at all. Those guns that could not train on Wessex were firing at the boats, without success so far. In the harbour, he could see three or four plumes of smoke, presumably where the boats were following their orders to sink or destroy, but not to take prizes. Holbrooke, however, was under no such orders and he had been permitted explicitly by Carlisle to take a prize if there was sufficient time, but under no circumstances was he to cause a delay in the squadron’s withdrawal. He could see that the boats were not yet returning from the harbour, so perhaps he had time.
‘We will tack and withdraw a little Mister Hosking so that we can release the longboat to cut out that last privateer. Will that give us enough sea-room without the longboat’s help?’
