The Leeward Islands Squadron, page 13
part #2 of Carlisle & Holbrooke Series
Carlisle almost found himself hoping that the brave soldiers would reach the relative safety of the schooner’s hull, but it was not to be. The two six-pounders below him on the quarterdeck fired almost simultaneously when the soldiers still had another fifty yards of rough ground to cover. The order for grapeshot had reached the quarterdeck six-pounders just after they had fired their round-shot at the fort, so this second salvo was the true anti-personnel ammunition. Carlisle was impressed that the grapeshot had been stored ready for use beside each gun; it would have been easy to forget that detail in the preparations for action. This was a reasonable distance for this heavier anti-personnel ammunition. It was beyond the effective range of the case-shot which in a six-pounder would fire forty musket balls in quite a wide cone, too widely dispersed at that range. But it was just right for the eleven half-pound balls tightly wrapped in a canvas bag that made up the six-pounders’ grapeshot. The range was great enough to allow the pattern of balls to open into a cone that would cover about fifteen yards of width but close enough for accuracy and to keep the pattern sufficiently concentrated for lethal effect.
One of the guns – the first to fire – was not so well laid and the balls merely churned up a portion of the sea and scattered stone chips from the rocks at the water’s edge. But the second was elevated just right. If it had been traversed a little further left it would have utterly destroyed that valiant group of men, but as it was it just caught the stragglers. Five fell, struck down like wooden pins on a bowling alley. Carlisle trained his telescope on the tragic group. There was little that could be done for a man hit by half a pound of cast iron travelling at around eleven-hundred feet per second. Two of them didn’t move at all, but three of them were apparently still living. Perhaps they had merely been hit by stone chips flung up by the boulders that they had been scrambling over. He watched the officer. He was a middle-aged man, and he had lost his hat and his wig, exposing the short, grey hair beneath. Calling to four of his men he ran back to help the wounded soldiers. Carlisle had seen enough.
‘Mister Godwin, tell the guns to concentrate their fire upon the schooner, do not fire upon the wounded men.’
Godwin waved in acknowledgement, and at that moment, before the order could be relayed to the midshipman on the fo’c’sle, his six-pounder fired its round of grape. Carlisle had an immediate premonition of tragedy. By the time he turned back towards the little group of wounded and their rescuers, they were no more. They had been caught in the centre of the pattern of grapeshot, and whether by direct impact or by flying stone chips, they had been annihilated, barely a movement was seen from the ten men. He heard the howl of anger from their friends who nevertheless and quite sensibly continued running for the schooner.
Carlisle turned towards the fo’c’sle, rage contorting his face, but he quickly took control of himself. It wasn’t the fault of the midshipman or his gun crew. They had no leisure to pick and choose their target, being wholly occupied in loading and firing with barely enough time for aiming. They would probably have merely seen a group of men, the same enemy that they had been ordered to engage only a few moments before. They didn’t even now understand what they had done but were rapidly loading again with grape-shot, levering the gun to the left to point at the schooner now that their previous target had been dealt with. In all fairness, they were more to be commended than criticised. Not for the first time, Carlisle had been forcibly reminded of the need for the ship’s officers to be free from involvement in the mechanics of fighting the ship so that they could retain a measure of clarity for making the right decisions promptly. If he had shouted his order to Godwin only a few seconds earlier – as soon as he saw the effect of the quarterdeck gun – that pointless and inhuman slaughter could have been averted. A display of mercy would not even have helped the French officer on his mission as he would have been severely hampered by the three wounded men, and Carlisle could see that the second-in-command was already rallying the survivors.
‘Mister Godwin, keep those soldiers off the deck of the schooner, space out the fire of the six-pounders so that they are continuously engaged.’
While this drama was being enacted, the pinnace crew had left their boat towing on a painter behind the captured privateer, and the first of the headsails had been set and was just starting to draw. Carlisle would have set the mizzen first to avoid too much sideways pressure being put on the tow, but he could see that the mizzen was being released from its brails and would soon be balancing the rig. The task of the longboat was visibly eased, and he could see both vessels starting to move faster. They now had to choose the right time to drop the tow, though not until the prize had steerage way and was on a course which would allow her to clear the northern headland. How frustrating, to be watching this critical operation without being able to influence it in any way!
Meanwhile, Wessex had her own battle to fight. The soldiers sent to extinguish the fire in the schooner were thoroughly pinned down. One or two brave souls had scaled the hull, fighting their way through the choking smoke, but there was little that they could do. If left to themselves, without Wessex’s lethal grape-shot, they may have been able to quench the fire and in a short while to reduce the amount of smoke, but that was not to be, and the officer left in charge must be rapidly realising what a fool’s errand he had been sent on.
***
‘Captain Carlisle!’ That was the master calling from the quarterdeck. ‘I strongly recommend that we get underway immediately. We are being blown down towards the shallows, and very soon we won’t be able to weather the point.’ Thompson was not entirely his imperturbable self. What sailing master could be, lying-to with the shore five cables under his lee and a captain apparently determined to remain in that position indefinitely?
However, Carlisle wasn’t going to be rushed. He was sure that Thompson had given himself some room for error. He looked carefully over at the frigate and its prize. They were still within range of the fort’s guns but would only have to withstand one or two more firing and reloading cycles before they were beyond effective range. The fort was still wreathed in smoke, and there was nothing that the group of soldiers could do in under an hour that would change the situation. Carlisle could see for himself that the flagship would soon be perilously close to the land. A leadsman had been calling the depth since they entered the bay, stolidly carrying out his task from the fo’c’sle head with the six-pounders firing at his elbow. ‘By the deep sixteen,’ he called. Sixteen fathoms, that was plenty of water for a ship that drew less than twenty feet, but Carlisle knew that it shoaled fast here. Thompson was becoming agitated. The ordinarily rock-solid sailing master was almost dancing with frustration.
‘Very well Mister Thompson. Get us underway but keep us in range of the fort as long as possible.’
The fore-topsail was swung around, the sheets hardened in, and Wessex slowly moved off. North-northwest was the course to comfortably clear Point Bois Maurice and escape this wind-bound bay. Her battery could still point at the fort, and she kept up a regular fire as she withdrew. Both Medina and the prize could sail a little higher, and although they were still in the danger zone, the range was rapidly becoming too high for accurate shooting from the fort. The French gunnery really was poor. Wessex had received only a few hits, and none had caused severe damage. Carlisle tried to imagine himself in the position of the French artillery commander. His gunners were blinded by the thick smoke rolling in through the embrasures, and there was apparently nothing he could do about it. His attempt to move the schooner or put out the fire had failed with a tragic loss of life. Most of the time, the Frenchmen could see their target through the smoke, but it was in fleeting images only and not for long enough to allow the careful aiming of the guns which would have proved lethal to Carlisle’s plans. Also, his gunners had sustained casualties. Carlisle had seen several of Wessex’s twenty-four and eighteen-pound shot bring up showers of rock chippings around the embrasures and he was confident that some had gone clean through. At least one of the fort’s guns had been silent for some time. The Frenchman was rapidly being educated about the limits of the effectiveness of heated shot and the advantages of sea-borne mobility. There would be some harsh words between him and the fort’s commander, no doubt.
The final shots from the fort raised waterspouts a cable short of Wessex’s stern and well clear of the higher-pointing and faster-sailing Medina and her prize. The two-decker had been faithful to the purpose for which she had been built. She had absorbed the wrath of the fort to allow her nimbler consort to destroy first the enemy’s commerce raiders and second the enemy’s trade itself. The last that Fort Royal saw of the squadron was its topsails disappearing around the northern headland as it left the Grand Bay and sailed away to the north. Carlisle noted with satisfaction that the schooner was still emitting billows of thick smoke, the party sent to extinguish it probably having insufficient buckets for the job. He guessed that the unfortunate vessel would continue to burn all day if they didn’t get a portable pump down onto the foreshore.
***
13: Death at Sea
Thursday, twenty-third of December 1756
Medina, at Sea, St. Vincent southeast 18 leagues
Two days had passed since the second attack on Port Louis. In that time the squadron had beat north-northwest, or as close as they could lie, against a steady northeast trade wind, but progress was painfully slow with Wessex favouring her wounded main yard. Barbados was almost dead to windward of Grenada, an inescapable fact of geography and the general circulation of air in the North Atlantic. Sailors have known this for hundreds of years and have planned their voyages accordingly. So, in an ideal world, one ruled by geography and meteorology and not by Admiralty orders, the squadron would have called at Barbados before Granada. But Edward Carlisle had no such luxury. He was under orders to call at Carlisle Bay – there was an almost childish delight in heading for a place with which he shared a name – to look for the Leeward Islands Squadron, and if they weren’t there to stretch right across the Windward and Leeward islands to English Harbour in Antigua. Privately, Carlisle considered it unlikely that he would find the squadron at Barbados. There was no reason for Admiral Frankland to be there when the French were at Martinique, and the trade of Britain predominantly passed through the passages between the islands in the north of the chain. Frankland was short of ships at this early stage of the war. He would welcome the additional strength of even this small squadron, but he wouldn’t feel the need to meet them on their journey. Unless he had word of a threat to Barbados, it was unlikely that Carlisle Bay would be disturbed by the presence of the Leeward Islands Squadron.
It was just a part of life at sea, this continual battle to sail against the wind. They had fought for every inch to windward – to the west – to clear the Grand Bay. Then, when the sea-breeze faded as they left the influence of the island, and the trade wind regained its ascendancy, they had continued to fight for every inch to windward, but now trying to make ground to the east. The plan was to beat up to the latitude of St. Lucia and then put the wind on their larboard bow and – hopefully – be able to sail through the passage between St. Vincent and St. Lucia and so in a single tack to Carlisle Bay. Any change in the constancy of the northeast trade wind would alter the plan. If the wind veered, they would be tacking through the passage; if it backed, they would have a pleasant reach to their destination and knock a day or two off the voyage.
Wessex was nearly whole again. A spare t’gallant yard had been fished to the end of the main yard. It wouldn’t withstand a Caribbean hurricane, but it would get them to English Harbour, given average luck. The poop deck, however, was not repairable at sea. Carlisle had quizzed the carpenter, a young and very active man who appeared to know his trade. The best he could do was to create a framework over the great cabin and fit the spare topsail more snuggly, well frapped down with strong ropes, so that the weather was kept out. The bulkhead at the forward end of the great cabin had also been reinforced and made weather-tight. The only real detriment to the accommodation of the ship was the loss of the great cabin and the after end of the poop deck. Otherwise, Wessex was whole and fit for sea if a little ungainly with her drooping stern. But she was slow, she always had been, particularly with the wind on her bow, and she was a sore trial to the fast-sailing Medina.
Jermy had been returned to his dining cabin, still unconscious, barely alive in fact. The surgeon had nothing new to say, and after a conference with Medina’s surgeon, they concluded that all they could do was keep him comfortable until he could be landed at Bridgetown – to whatever facilities that place offered. Carlisle had considered heading directly for Antigua, but they could hardly have reached there any earlier, and the health of the commodore did not – in his judgement – justify disobeying the Admiralty’s written orders.
***
‘Well, Holbrooke, this is fine weather,’ said Carlisle, ‘it’s good to be back in my own ship.’ He stretched his head over the weather hammock netting and savoured the salt air, blowing clean across thousands of miles of ocean to speed the squadron on its way. The people were in excellent spirits, and their losses in Port Louis had been forgotten. They had their prize in company; she could be seen just to leeward of them, a nice little ship-rigged ex-privateer that would fetch a decent price when they presented her to the Vice-Admiralty court in English Harbour. And this weather and the constant care needed to get the most out of the ship was good for the men. If they could just make their own way to Barbados and not have to drag that slug of a two-decker with them, this passage would be perfect. Ever since the command of the squadron had devolved onto their captain, they had resented having to trim their pace for Wessex. When she carried a functioning commodore, it was only natural that Medina should conform to her speed, but now she was to all intents and purposes the junior ship, her continued holding back of her betters was barely endurable.
‘What do you think of this weather Mister Hosking? will it last?’
‘It looks well enough to me sir, the true and honest trade wind.’
The master, feeling a slight change in the strength of the wind, cast a glance at the luff of the mainsail and then at the steersmen. He nodded in satisfaction as the quartermaster ordered the helm put down a fraction to take advantage of the gust.
‘We’re clear of the hurricane season, and the glass is steady, so I see no reason why we shouldn’t hold this wind for the next few days.’ He swept the horizon, using his hand to shield his eyes from the glare of the sun. ‘But we must watch for squalls nevertheless sir. You see those great towering clouds to windward?’ Carlisle had indeed seen them. He remembered them well from his previous service in these parts. ‘They can bring strong squalls, perhaps sixty knots in the gusts and torrential rain, and sometimes the wind backs very quickly. Nothing like the genuine hurricane, but if you are caught with your t’gallants set, it can be right awkward.’
‘Thank you, Mister Hosking. Perhaps you would write a note on the slate for the officers and speak to each of them explaining the danger. Now, when do you believe we will be able to fetch Carlisle Bay? When should we tack?’ That called for a detailed discussion, and the two men went below to the great cabin to study the charts.
‘Perhaps by the end of the afternoon watch sir? Unless this wind backs, in which case we can tack as soon as we like. There’s plenty of water between the islands.’
They were disturbed by a knock on the door, heralding the entrance of Midshipman Smith.
‘Beg pardon sir, Mister Holbrooke’s compliments and Wessex has put up her helm and is closing on us; it looks like she wants to speak.’
‘Very good, I’ll be on deck in two minutes.’
He pointed to Martinique on the chart. ‘I don’t want to be seen from Martinique, just in case the French have a strong squadron lurking to the south of the island. It’s no part of our orders to interfere in the balance of forces without Admiral Frankland. As you say unless the wind changes we can come about at seven bells in the afternoon watch to allow the hands to make all secure before the dogs.’
Carlisle bounded lightly up the ladder and onto the quarterdeck. Whatever Godwin had to say would probably ruin his day, but at least he could make the most of this carefree feeling while it lasted. The great two-decker was still a cable away when Carlisle reached the quarterdeck. He could see Godwin standing beside the larboard mizzen shrouds, evidently preparing to hail as soon as the distance closed.
‘Watch your course quartermaster and pay attention to the dog-vane.’ He heard Holbrooke say. There was always a danger when two large ships came this close, particularly when they were sailing on a bowline. This was not the time for Medina to be caught aback by a fluke of the wind.
Closer and closer came Wessex. She looked enormous at half a cable, but she needed to be at a quarter of a cable for a shouted conversation, or preferably less. From this perspective, it was easy to see the attraction of these fifty-gun ships to a cash-starved Admiralty. They cost a fraction of the money needed to build a modern seventy-four and yet for a colonial presence they fulfilled the need splendidly. They looked imposing, could accommodate a flag officer and a small retinue and could fight anything below the third rate. The danger was in believing the fantasy that they could stand in the line of battle. Those days were gone and unlikely to return.
