The Leeward Islands Squadron, page 19
part #2 of Carlisle & Holbrooke Series
‘Weren’t they at all disappointed?’
‘Not that I could detect. However, they very much expect to take some prizes on this cruise. They look to Martinique to fill their pockets for the next run ashore.’
‘Ha! They’ll be disappointed then. They must know that a prize must be condemned by a court first and then the prize sold, and the agents paid off. Eventually, months or years later, some money may filter through to their pockets.’ Holbrooke knew only too well how long it took for prize money to make its way to the captors. Even in the straightforward case of Vulcain, which had been bought into the navy, there was no immediate sign of the prize money.
‘But my dear George. Don’t you know that on this station it’s often the custom for captains to take matters into their own hands? I understand Mister Frankland himself is quite famous for side-stepping the process and making an immediate distribution.’
‘Very true David. But I wonder whether Captain Carlisle will take a similar view.’ Holbrooke knew his captain’s mind quite well and was very familiar with the emotional burden that he carried from the Colonies. It was hard to imagine Carlisle exposing himself by taking such a cavalier attitude to the regulations. A sea officer with more influential friends – and Frankland was undoubtedly that, and a member of parliament – could do so, but Carlisle probably could not.
The two men were lost in their own thoughts. The shrill sound of the bosun’s call brought them back to the present as a couple of hundred pairs of feet started rushing in all directions, at first apparently at random, but soon settling to a well-known pattern. It took less than ten minutes to clear for action and for all hands to be reported at their stations.
***
The outline of the hills of Martinique became more distinct, rimmed in silver turning to orange as the sun rose with the rapidity that was always a surprise to those used to higher latitudes. But long before the rays of the sun fell directly on this patch of the sea, it became evident that Medina was not alone. Only two miles to leeward a group of four merchant ships were heading north. They must have left one of the more southerly ports in Martinique the previous evening and had shortened sail overnight. Whatever the reason, there they were, and Medina was ideally positioned to take them as prizes. At the first gun, the sole schooner that flew colours struck them, and they all started their sheets and awaited the prize crews. They could neither flee from this fleet frigate in the open sea nor fight its overwhelming strength. Better by far to surrender, let the insurance companies bear the loss and resign themselves to a spell in the prison hulks that lined the upper reaches of Portsmouth Harbour and the Medway. Perhaps luck would be with them, and they would be exchanged without too long a spell of incarceration, they reasoned.
Medina lay comfortably to the moderate swell with the four prizes under her lee. It took until noon to examine each vessel and for Carlisle to determine that they were all lawful prizes. Their papers spoke of French ownership and their bills of lading detailed the cargoes of sugar, indigo, cotton and coffee that were being taken to Guadeloupe for onward trans-shipment to France. The hatches to the holds were sealed, and their crews were taken from the schooners and snows and confined to the mess decks under the fo’c’sle of the largest vessel, a ship-rigged old tub. The French masters and mates were brought aboard Medina to deprive the imprisoned crews of their leadership and thus to reduce the risk of an organised uprising. Common humanity would have persuaded Carlisle to give them a boat and send them all into St. Pierre; the prison hulks were not pleasant, and they stood a small but significant chance of never seeing their homes again. But one of the essential strategies of this war was to reduce the ability of the French to create a fleet capable of challenging the British navy, and Carlisle well knew that the most critical deficiency that the French Ministry of Marine faced was the shortage of skilled seamen. Their Lordships were firm – all French seamen taken prisoner were to be held. No local exchanges, no ransoms.
Medina lost a master’s mate, three midshipmen, twenty hands and six marines to the prize crews; a substantial reduction in the manpower of a frigate, and they couldn’t be reunited with their ship unless Medina returned to English Harbour on her way north. Nevertheless, it was an excellent transaction. There was at least a year’s pay for each man on board, even after Admiral Frankland had taken his eighth, and all for a single gun and no casualties. If the prizes gave Dominica and Guadeloupe a wide berth, they would be in English Harbour and safe behind Fort Berkeley by Saturday afternoon.
Medina’s activities had undoubtedly been observed from the shore of Martinique. Mount Pelée rose high above the remainder of the island, green to its very peak and yet looking volcanic and inhospitable. It was an excellent place for a lookout but perhaps somewhat uncomfortable and isolated. If the French commander had not utilised that lofty position, there were settlements, plantations, anchorages and batteries all around the coast, offering vantage points from where a lookout could have seen Medina making her captures. From there, it was a short horse-ride by a respectable coast road to St. Pierre and then on to Fort Royal. It was unlikely that any shipping would stir from Martinique for the next few days, but there was still a hope of northbound traffic from St. Lucia, St. Vincent or Grenada.
***
It was a cheerful ship’s company that bade farewell to the four prizes, and a smiling set of prize crews that waved back. Although they had a two-day voyage with under-strength crews and unfamiliar rigs, at least only one of the prizes had to deal with the captives, and they had half a dozen marines for that task.
‘What do you think of that morning’s work David?’ asked Holbrooke as he was taking his dinner in the gunroom.
‘Neat, very neat,’ the chaplain replied. ‘I’m supposed to be above the base desire for money, but as I am informed that I share in the prize distribution, I can only say God Speed the Prizes!’ He raised his glass to a sentiment that was echoed by all the other members of the mess, so loudly that the quartermaster two decks above nodded his old head in agreement.
‘But tell me, why was the captain so pleased that all the prizes had been taken at the same time? What was the significance of that?’
‘Well, do you see, every prize needs a prize crew to work the vessel to English Harbour. That’s not so bad, but if there is a large crew of captives to look after then the crew may need to be doubled to act as guards,’ said the Holbrooke.
‘And then, if there is a significant passage to make, every prize needs at least a master’s mate to ensure that she gets home safe and sound,’ the master chipped in.
‘But if all the prisoners can be put in one of the vessels, then only one set of guards is needed,’ Holbrooke continued.
‘And if they can all sail in company, then a master’s mate can do the navigation for all four, and we need only send a youngster or a quartermaster as prize captain in the others.’
‘So, you see, there is saving in men – skilled men and officers – so that we can continue the cruise and if fortune favours us we can continue to send in prizes.’
Chalmers was pleased with the explanation, and delighted with the thought of more prizes, particularly if they could be obtained in this bloodless way. Everything he owned was in the tiny berth that he shared with the surgeon. The chaplain had no family to fall back upon, no patronage in the church, no living in the country, no tithes. He was as destitute as a man of the cloth could reasonably be, and any addition to his paltry naval pay was very welcome indeed.
Holbrooke looked at his watch significantly, and all the others took the hint. The hands would be called to quarters in a few minutes, and the ship would be rigged for action. They were heading for the next episode of their cruise, a look into the anchorage at St. Pierre.
***
They approached on the larboard tack, pointing as close to the wind as ever they could. St. Pierre greeted them with a furious discharge of powder and shot from the fort and from a small battery on the south side of the anchorage. If there had been any doubt whether their presence had been reported, there was none now. The anchorage was crowded with vessels, many of them the larger French West Indiamen, loading for a voyage back to France. Crowded was the correct word, because when they had heard of the captures off the northern coast – which they did within an hour of sunrise – they had all moved closer under the guns of Fort St. Pierre. They had sailed, warped and towed, using whatever means they could to be safe from this marauder. With the greatest of incentives, it would be impossible to attempt anything against the ships in the bay, so after exchanging a few broadsides with the southerly battery, Medina put the wind on her quarter and stretched away southwards for Fort Royal.
***
20: Ambuscade
Thursday, third of February 1757
Medina, at Sea, off Martinique
The frigate was cleared for action again. The same crews at their guns, the same groups of seamen on the fo’c’sle, the same officers on the quarterdeck. But this time there was a different feeling on deck. It was fifteen miles from St. Pierre to Fort Royal, the principal French naval base in the West Indies. Fifteen miles on a twisting stone road that followed every spur of the mountains, every inlet of the sea but there was no doubt that a mounted messenger could make that journey in under three hours. Fort Royal would certainly have known of Medina’s presence since the middle of the forenoon watch and would even know that she had taken prizes within sight of the shores of French Martinique.
Medina had orders to look into Fort Royal and report back to English Harbour with a count of the number and rates of men-of-war. That meant coming within a few miles of the anchorage, five miles at most. He wasn’t concerned with the batteries, he could keep clear of those, but he was anxious about the French men-of-war. By the time he reached the Cul de Sac Royal – the deep bay that provided the sheltered harbour for Fort Royal which was positioned on its northern shore, the French could have sailed and been ready to meet him. They would have the weather-gage, and he would be hard-pressed to out-run one of the superb French seventy-fours, or even the more sedate sixty and fifty-gun fourth rates.
Carlisle looked at his watch. ‘The French commander will have had four hours’ notice of our arrival on this coast,’ he said to Holbrook and Hosking, who had squeezed into this small space that the master used for his charts and instruments. ‘He has had time to send a corvette down the coast, out of sight, and a third-rate could be weighing her anchor as we speak.’
‘Could already have weighed,’ responded the master, the voice of caution as always.
‘Only if he slipped his cable I fancy, Mister Hosking.’ He looked slightly irritated at being contradicted. Holbrooke had learned that it wasn’t really the case that Carlisle was annoyed with the person who had corrected him but rather that he was disappointed in himself. The dissatisfied look came when Carlisle was trying to analyse his own failings – why had he not thought of that? Why had he not acted sooner? And all the other what-ifs that plagued the conscientious captain.
‘But you are correct, of course. We must not underestimate our enemy.’
Hosking merely nodded. He had been at sea before this young post-captain was born and was not inclined to be patronised.
‘If we take the worst case, and a ship of greater force than us slipped or weighed three hours ago, where could they be now?’
Hosking stepped off the distances on the chart. The results were encouraging. In this pure air and with a simple calculation of speed, time and distance, it was evident that Medina would be able to see the enemy from the masthead – they would not have had time to disappear below the horizon. There would be no line-of-battle ship ready to spring the trap when Medina was committed to the six-mile-wide entrance to the bay, between Negro Point and Black Cove.
‘Could one of them have slipped around Diamond Rock, rather than sailed to the west?’ Holbrooke voiced the concern that they all had.
‘A ship-of-the-line could not have made it in that time,’ said Hosking. ‘But a frigate or corvette may have.’
They both looked at Carlisle. It was his decision. In an ideal world, they would have run southwest to give Fort Royal a wide berth until they could come back at a time when they weren’t expected. However, there was a time constraint. Carlisle had only been granted two weeks for his cruise, and he had to visit their old friends at Grenada yet. There would hardly be time to come back inside the islands for another look at Fort Royal. Carlisle knew this was risky, but he was in high spirits after the captures of the morning and wanted to get this over and done. He wanted to be free to cruise upon the enemy’s commerce.
Holbrooke spoke, moving his fingers across the chart to illustrate his point. ‘Perhaps there is another way. We could cruise a few leagues off the bay until an hour or two before sunset. That will allow the sea breeze to die away, we will have the sun behind us, and perhaps, if there is an ambush, the French will spring it too soon, before we are trapped against the land.’ He looked at his captain and the master; they were watching him with interest, rapidly thinking over this new plan. ‘We would only lose three or four hours and still have a good count of the Frenchmen.’
Hosking nodded thoughtfully. Carlisle considered for a moment. ‘Then let us make it so. Mister Hosking, we will cruise between these two points,’ he indicated a line parallel to the mouth of the bay but six miles out to sea. ‘Mister Holbrooke, the hands can secure from quarters, but the ship is to remain cleared for action. Set the sea watch and double the lookouts.’
‘Aye-aye sir.’ The two men turned away to their tasks.
‘One more thing,’ he said as they were squeezing out of the door. ‘I want an extra lookout at the main masthead. His only task is to watch the water around Diamond Rock, nothing else. Any sign of a sail in that direction and I am to be told immediately.’
***
The afternoon wore on. There was a haze over the land, and little could be seen of Fort Royal at this range. Some thought they could see at least three French two-deckers, some more, some less. Without a doubt, there would be keen eyes in the citadel watching this insolent frigate, but there was no movement from the anchorage. Perhaps the commander over there was reluctant to order his ships to sail when it was quite clear that Medina would flee at the first sight of canvas being shaken out on anything more substantial than a frigate. It would be a humiliating waste of effort.
But Carlisle had not yet discounted the possibility of an ambush. If a messenger had made that ride an hour faster than they guessed, if the French navy was at a higher state of readiness than he assumed, and if they had slipped their cable as soon as the British frigate was reported, then Medina could be trapped even now and not know it.
‘Twilight at 6.48,’ Hosking reminded Carlisle, who knew it very well, having been reminded hourly since giving the order to cruise off the bay.
‘Turn the glass and strike the bell,’ he heard the quartermaster say. Four double-strokes told him that it was the end of the afternoon watch, 4.00pm.
‘Very well Mister Hosking. As soon as the watch is on deck, you may head in towards Fort Royal.’ He looked over to the east. The master had done well, they could just fetch the entrance to the Cul de Sac Royal in one tack. In an hour they would be able to see what was in the anchorage. Carlisle felt strangely nervous.
‘Give the starboard watch thirty minutes below deck, then at one bell you can beat to quarters, Mister Holbrooke.’
***
The marine drummer dutifully beat his drum, but it was only a formality. The starboard watch knew what was up and the more diligent of them were already at their stations. Medina was hard on the wind, on the larboard tack with the quartermaster and steersmen watching for every flaw in the north-easterly breeze that could be used to keep her pointed as high as possible. The French naval base and citadel were on the northern shore of the Cul de Sac Royal, three miles east of Negro Point, which marked the seaward limit of the north coast of the bay. The citadel itself was on a peninsula, and sheltered behind the peninsula, on its eastern side, were the wharves and storehouses of the dockyard. That was where any ships in ordinary would be berthed and where any careening would take place; like Antigua, there was no dry dock. The naval anchorages were all within a mile of the citadel in good holding ground of around fifteen fathoms. Further east, deeper into the bay, the water shallowed into a maze of sandbanks and reefs. It was easy to see why the French treasured this location; it was sheltered from the prevailing north-easterly trade wind, it had a wide mouth to allow the largest ships-of-the-line to come and go in most wind directions, and there was swinging space for a large fleet. Carlisle thought that he could get a good view of the anchorage if he went right up to the line from Negro Point to Black Cove. From there he could get an accurate count and a good idea of the rates of the ships at anchor. He was reluctant to go further into the Cul de Sac, but if he wanted to know what lay behind the citadel, in the dockyard, he would need to penetrate the very heart of the French naval domain, as high as Ramier’s Island on the south coast of the broad bay.
‘I’ll decide upon that when I get a clearer view of the anchorage,’ thought Carlisle. He still found it hard to believe that the French commander at Fort Royal had not prepared some sort of surprise for him.
‘Lookout!’ called Carlisle, tilting his face up to the main masthead. ‘Are there any sails to leeward? Look carefully at the sea around that headland.’
‘Nothing sir,’ came the voice from on high. ‘There are two small fishing boats on the south side of the bay, close to the shore, but nothing else.’
‘Is it possible that the French have been asleep since we took those prizes this morning?’ he asked Holbrooke. ‘If I were the French commander in that citadel or the senior officer afloat, I would be doing something, if only for the honour of the flag. Are they really content to allow us to sail right into the heart of their naval base.’
