The Jamaica Station, page 25
part #3 of Carlisle & Holbrooke Naval Adventures Series
By the time the signal had been hoisted and the guns fired, the French ships were in plain sight. It was indeed the battle squadron. The two seventy-fours were followed by the sixty-four and Greenwich, then the three frigates. They were a brave sight, sailing close hauled to weather the Cape as they made for the Great Pass between the natural barrier of the banks and Cape François itself.
‘Masthead, do you see any movement among the merchantmen?’ Holbrooke called.
‘No sir, they’re all at anchor with their yards hoisted and their sails furled,’ replied Whittle. ‘They look the same as yesterday,’ and in a lower voice, meant for his friends in the maintop, ‘and the day before, and the day before that.’
‘Set a course to beat up to windward of the flagship, Mister Hosking. Unless we get any further orders, we must take up our station for repeating signals.’
Medina swung to starboard, her bows as close to the wind as could be contrived. She heeled over another few strakes as the spray started to come in over the bow.
‘T’gallants, Mister Hosking.’
The master frowned; the wind was just over his self-imposed limit for setting the topmost sails. The bosun, however, had anticipated his captain’s next order and the topmen were poised to run out and cast off the gaskets.
‘Close the larboard port-lids,’ shouted Lynton down to the guns. He could see that the gun ports would be perilously close to the waves once all the sails started to draw. Frigates carried their main battery much higher than ships-of-the-line, but even for frigates there came a time when prudence dictated that they should be closed.
Medina heeled even further. The frigate’s lee chains were touching the waves, and her stem was parting the water and throwing it out in a broad white swath.
Holbrooke looked over his shoulder, back towards the harbour. It was an imposing sight. The two big seventy-fours had just made the turn around the smaller of the inner banks, Le Petit Mouton, and were reaching towards the Cape past the larger bank, Le Grande Mouton. Each ship shook out its t’gallants in succession as it came off the wind. Holbrooke nodded in appreciation. ‘De Kersaint must be sure of his squadron’s seamanship to be crowding on sail in that fashion before he’s through the Great Pass, those are damnably confined waters,’ he said to Hosking and Lynton. There was something majestic about the Intrépide and Sceptre, some quality of form and function that British shipbuilders had failed to emulate. They weren’t new ships, they’d been built as a class of three and were all launched at Brest back in ’47 at the height of the last war. Only these two were left in French hands. The third, Monarque, had served only a few months before she was taken by Hawke off Finisterre and brought into British service as Monarch.
Holbrooke remembered that it was on the quarterdeck of Monarch in March of that year, just seven months ago, that Admiral Byng had been executed for failing to do his utmost in the face of the enemy. Holbrooke had been present at the Battle of Minorca as a master’s mate in command of Fury’s Prize, a small barca-longa, running errands between the ships-of-the-line and the frigates. He’d been privileged to have a grandstand view of the battle, and even now he couldn’t say whether the British or the French had the best of the day. What he did know was that Byng’s eventual fate had been determined at the council-of-war after the battle, where the assembled captains endorsed his decision to withdraw to Gibraltar for repairs. That left the French navy in command of the Western Mediterranean, free to protect the transports that resupplied de Richelieu’s army at Fort St. Phillip. That decision sealed Minorca’s fate and, eventually, Byng’s.
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When Medina had found her station on the windward side of Forrest’s flagship, the squadron tacked to the northeast in line-of-battle, going about in succession so that each ship passed through the water that the one ahead had just vacated. It must have been evident to de Kersaint that the British commodore wasn’t refusing battle, he was just choosing where he wished to fight. Forrest wanted to be well clear of Cape François with plenty of sea-room and no hostile harbour right under his lee.
‘The commodore signals ‘lie-to with heads to the west’ and ‘all captains,’ sir,’ reported midshipman Smith. That was a surprise. Forrest’s conference in Port Royal and his written instructions seemed to cover all eventualities.
The bosun was already hauling the cutter alongside, and Jackson was hurrying the boat’s crew over the side. Speed was necessary because Holbrooke should undoubtedly be the first captain on the deck of the flagship, being immeasurably junior to the other two. Naval protocol insisted that no senior officer should ever have to await the coming of a junior.
It was a short but choppy pull across to the flagship. Edinburgh’s boat having less distance to row would have beaten them, but Holbrooke saw Langdon ordering his coxswain to pull slowly to let the frigate’s boat hook onto the chains first.
Holbrooke waited for Suckling and Langdon at the entry port. He could see that de Kersaint had already rounded the Great Bank and was standing out to sea. Forrest had also noticed the French moves and had no time to waste; he chose not to leave his quarterdeck.
The three captains ascended the ladder to be met with a brief handshake. It was a dramatic scene; Holbrooke was standing to one side with Forrest to his left and Suckling and Langdon to his right. Between them he could see the French line – four two-deckers butting into the sea, their gun ports already open and their yards chained and puddened. Two of them were superb seventy-fours, superior in firepower and sailing qualities to any of Forrest’s squadron. Beyond them, he could see the three frigates, each one larger than Medina. It seemed ridiculous that Forrest should even consider engaging them. Surely he’d withdraw to windward, rather than accept a fight.
‘Well, gentlemen, you see they’re come out to engage us,’ said Forrest without any sort of introduction. He looked eager, as though he just wanted a positive response from his captains.
‘I think it’d be a pity to disappoint them,’ replied Suckling, smiling broadly.
‘Aye, that it would,’ said Langdon in agreement.
Holbrooke felt that it wasn’t his place to speak. Medina may have to fight the frigates, but that was an entirely different undertaking to the line of battle. Each of these captains was committing himself to take his ship into action with little opportunity for manoeuvre and with the unspoken contract that he personally would walk his quarterdeck with nothing between himself and the thirty-two-pound shot and canister that would sweep his deck.
‘Very well,’ replied Forrest, ‘then I shall detain you no longer, go back to your ships.’ He turned to Holbrooke, ‘stay a few moments, if you please, Captain.’
Before Suckling and Langdon had left the quarterdeck, he called to the signal midshipman, ‘make the signal for the line of battle and when that’s been acknowledged, bend on another signal to bear away to engage the enemy.’
With a brief handshake, Suckling and Langdon returned to the entry port and to the wailing of the pipes, they dropped down into their boats. They’d been on the deck of the flagship for less than two minutes.
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Holbrooke wasn’t sure what he’d just witnessed. Was it a council-of-war? If so, it was the shortest that he’d ever heard of. Was it an exercise in sharing the blame if the day should turn out badly, a cynical yardarm-clearer? If so, then Forrest must know that the backing of a council-of-war hadn’t swayed the members of Byng’s court-martial board. They had correctly determined that the orders that sent Byng’s fleet into the Mediterranean had been his own orders and that only the admiral was responsible for their fulfilment. Or perhaps Forrest quite genuinely wanted a final word with his captains before leading them into what he knew would be a hard fight with the odds against them. Maybe he wanted reassurance that their hearts were in it.
‘Well, Mister Holbrooke,’ said Forrest when the other captains had left, ‘I just need a few words with you. It’s easy for those fellows, they have only to obey my orders, stay in line and hammer the enemy. I need a little more from you.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Holbrooke could think of nothing more to add.
‘The first point is that I need you to windward of me to relay signals. We have the weather gage, and I don’t intend to give it up without a good reason. You must station yourself where you can best see my flags and where Dreadnought and Edinburgh can see yours. Be fast in relaying them and above all be accurate!’
That much didn’t really need saying, every frigate captain knew his role in a squadron action. Forrest went on to talk about Medina being ready to embark the flag if Augusta should be severely damaged, to tow any ship out of the line if required, and to put a prize crew into a captured enemy. These again were quite ordinary tasks of a frigate.
‘But last, Holbrooke, you must be ready to defend yourself against his frigates. If I were de Kersaint and had three frigates to hand, I’d place two for the normal frigate tasks, and I’d send the forty-four – Outarde – I believe?’
‘Yes sir, Outarde. She’s been armed en flûte as a transport, but de Kersaint has taken guns from an Indiaman that was in the harbour and from the forts to fill every gun port. He’s also taken sailors from the merchantmen and soldiers from the garrison. I believe she now has a full complement of guns and men.’
‘I’d send the forty-four to engage you. So, beware! Now I know that you’re a bit of a spitfire but remember your primary tasks. I must have you in position to relay my signals, and I must have you ready to tow any of us out of action. Your own safety and any desire that you have to take on a heavy frigate, are secondary concerns.’
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25: The Battle
Friday, twenty-first of October 1757.
Medina, at Sea. Off Cape François, Saint Domingue.
Forrest’s squadron bore away in line ahead and then tacked in succession so that the enemy was to leeward and on the squadron’s starboard bow. Dreadnought was leading, Augusta with the pennant was in the centre, and Edinburgh brought up the rear. Holbrooke had a good view from his station to windward of the squadron where from the quarterdeck of Medina he could see all three of Forrest’s squadron, and they could see his relayed flag signals. So far there was no smoke and no confusion to hide either the flags or their meanings, but it was important that the squadron should get used to looking at the frigate for their signals so that it would be natural to do so in the heat of battle.
The two squadrons moved closer together, each on the larboard tack. Simmonds noted that the course was east-southeast and that the British line was bearing down upon the enemy. At twenty minutes past three, the first shot was fired as Intrépide tried a ranging shot against Dreadnought. It fell short, and so did the next, the third pitched up well but was poorly pointed. The French admiral was satisfied that he was within range of his enemy and within fifteen minutes all the ships were engaged in a furious cannonade.
‘Mister Simmonds!’ shouted Holbrooke. The noise of the battle even at this range and in these first few minutes was loud enough to make normal conversation difficult on Medina’s deck. ‘Make a note that at twenty minutes past three the action commenced. The French line consists of Intrépide in the van, then Greenwich followed by Opiniâtre and Sceptre in the rear.’
Simmonds rested his notebook on the binnacle and scratched away, occasionally checking the time from his watch.
It was difficult to see what was happening, but Forrest’s ships were all still in line. Although holes were appearing in their sails, they hadn’t lost any masts or yards – yet.
‘I’m surprised that de Kersaint even allows Greenwich into the line,’ said Hosking. ‘Her scantlings can’t stand against any of our ships, and her fifty guns won’t make much difference.’
‘Yes,’ replied Holbrooke, ‘but she’s protected by a seventy-four ahead and a sixty-four astern. She’s as safe there as anywhere and that allows Sceptre to overlap Edinburgh. It’ll be hard fighting in the rear.’
‘Sir, I’ve noted the disposition of the frigates,’ said Simmonds. ‘Sauvage is leading alongside the flag, Licorne in the centre and Outarde in the rear. Is that correct?’
‘It is Mister Simmonds,’ said Holbrooke trying to pierce the smoke that was now obscuring the frigates, ‘or at least that was correct twenty minutes ago. Can you see them, Mister Hosking?’
‘No, sir. The last glimpse that I had, they were in perfect order. Following along like lambs.’
‘Who’s at the masthead, Mister Lynton?’ asked Holbrooke.
‘It’s Whittle, sir,’ replied the first lieutenant, and under his breath, ‘it’s more than my life’s worth to send someone else up there.’
‘Masthead Ho!’ shouted Holbrooke.
‘Quarterdeck Ho!’ replied Whittle, his voice easily piercing the din of the battle to leeward.
‘Can you see the frigates?’
There was a slight pause as Whittle looked again over the smoke cloud. ‘Not now sir. I have the occasional view of them when the smoke thins. They were still closed up in line ahead two minutes ago.’
‘Let me know when you can see them again,’ replied Holbrooke.
‘I’d give a lot to know what orders that damned great forty-four has,’ said Holbrooke to Lynton. ‘Surely they have enough frigates without her? I wouldn’t be surprised to see her tacking around the rear soon. Then we’ll have our own battle.’
Lynton rubbed his hands. He’d become the sort of fighting sailor who enjoys combat for its own sake. A fight with a French frigate, even one mounting forty-four guns, was something to be eagerly anticipated. Holbrooke recognised the passions that moved his acting first lieutenant. He didn’t share them, but he understood them.
‘What on earth is Greenwich up to?’ asked Hosking. ‘Her bowsprit’s almost over the flagship’s taffrail.’
Holbrooke turned his telescope to the head of the line. He had a good view of Dreadnought and beyond as the smoke was being blown away from the British line onto the French. Through the murk, he could see Intrépide with the ex-British fifty-gun fourth-rate Greenwich very close astern and apparently running her bowsprit over the flagship’s quarterdeck and into her mizzen rigging. De Kersaint’s ship was yawing badly, trying to escape from Greenwich, but unsure which way to turn. Her gunnery had almost ceased in the confusion as the gun crews attempted to sort out the mess of yards, sails and rigging that encumbered her decks. Seeing his opportunity, Suckling’s Dreadnought moved closer to Intrépide, concentrating her gunnery on de Kersaint’s ship and completely ignoring Greenwich.
‘That’s right,’ said Holbrooke, ‘don’t interfere with Greenwich, she appears to be on our side.’
Hosking gave a single bark of a laugh. ‘Now look at Intrépide, she’s falling out of her station; she can’t take much more of that battering from Dreadnought.’
‘And there’s Opiniâtre moving up to the van to replace her,’ said Lynton. ‘Good God, Greenwich is having a go at her now!’
Sure enough, as Intrépide fell away to leeward, her rigging badly mauled, Opiniâtre could be seen through the smoke moving up to overtake Greenwich to windward. That was the correct move of course because Sceptre with her seventy-four guns was still at the rear of the French line and still substantially undamaged. However, Opiniâtre’s shrewd move was frustrated when Greenwich luffed clumsily to get clear of Intrépide and came head-to-wind, the remains of her bowsprit raking along the sixty-four’s side as she passed, damaging the lanyards for the shrouds and unhinging port-lids.
Dreadnought now moved ahead of the disabled group, pressed from astern by his commodore and their most powerful ship Edinburgh. These two took advantage of the confusion at the head of the French line and poured broadside after broadside into the tangled group. Through the smoke, it became evident that Intrépide was disabled and had nothing further to contribute to the battle.
‘Deck Ho,’ shouted Whittle from the masthead. ‘One of the frigates is moving up to the head of the line. It looks like she’s going to take the lead Frenchman in tow.’
‘Very good,’ replied Holbrooke, ‘watch the other frigates.’
It looked like Sceptre, rather than holding her position, was intent upon joining the melée at the head of the line, firing to windward as she passed the other ships of her squadron. However, Edinburgh clung to her and matched the French ship gun for gun with such ferocity that Sceptre too was forced to leeward.
‘Are they withdrawing?’ asked Hosking in astonishment.
‘It certainly looks that way,’ replied Holbrooke. ‘Damn this smoke, I can’t see what they’re doing.’
‘Whittle! What can you see of the French line?’ Holbrooke called up to the masthead.
‘Intrépide’s being towed to leeward, sir. Opiniâtre’s being engaged by the commodore, and it looks like the second smaller frigate is moving up to take her in tow.’ There was a short pause, then Whittle resumed. ‘Greenwich is in irons, and Sceptre and Edinburgh are still fighting in the rear.’
‘Suckling’s trying to double back to have another go at Intrépide,’ said Hosking, ‘but he’s having difficulty bearing away with so much damage aloft.’
Before their eyes, the French line was dissolving into disorder. The flagship was being towed out of battle, Greenwich was in a sorry state with her bowsprit dragging over her bows, and the last two in the line were feeling the weight of Forrest’s and Langdon’s broadsides.
‘Deck Ho! The big frigate has tacked and is trying to get around the rear of our line,’ shouted Whittle. ‘I can see her clearly now.’
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Holbrooke could feel all the eyes of the quarterdeck upon him, willing him to order their course reversed to take on Outarde. There was a feeling of fighting madness around him, a sense that they had been cheated of a battle, that the ships-of-the-line were getting all the glory. The pressure was becoming intense, and it was Hosking who crumpled first.
