by Chris Durbin
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2: A Calculated Risk
Wednesday, Fourteenth of December 1757.
Kestrel, at Sea. Scillies East-Northeast 150 leagues.
Holbrooke studied the sky and the set of Kestrel’s sails. ‘What does Licorne bear now Mister Varley?’ The master’s mate was new, an unknown quantity, having joined them in Port Royal during the frantic few days that Kestrel was being made ready for an Atlantic passage. Varley was somewhat older than Holbrooke and looked to be in his mid-twenties. Evidently, he’d been either unlucky or insufficiently gifted for his previous captains to send him for the lieutenant’s examination, or perhaps he’d tried and failed. On the quarterdeck he had a reserved, defensive manner, as though he’d learned the hard way not to draw attention to himself. Holbrooke could sense Varley’s indecision. He should have followed the conversation between Holbrooke and Shepherd and then he’d know the identity of the two enemy ships that were closest to them, but he hadn’t done so. The quartermaster saved him by tilting his head to leeward at the ship that was clearly visible only three miles away. He crouched down beside the binnacle and squinted along the compass.
‘East-by-north, sir,’ he replied. ‘The bearing’s drawing aft.’
At least the man had the intelligence to add the supplementary information. It was obvious that the frigate’s bearing would be moving to the left as Kestrel hurried south, but it was as well to encourage full reporting, then it would be second nature in the confusion of battle.
‘Very well Mister Varley.’
Holbrooke clung to the weather backstay for a few more seconds. He ignored Lynton who was trying to disguise the fact that he was watching his captain with interest. The lieutenant had a good idea of what was occupying him; anyone could see that they were being forced off their course. Holbrooke took another look at the convoy to leeward to confirm what he already knew. Licorne was holding a position to the south of the convoy, and she’d allowed herself to move ahead of the last few merchantmen, probably because it was Sauvage’s duty to guard the rear. That would do.
‘Quartermaster, up helm, put us before the wind,’ he snapped.
Kestrel yawed alarmingly as she swung off the wind and Holbrooke took the full force of the breaking crest of a roller that would have slipped quietly under their keel had they maintained their course. He wiped the salt water off his face; it was surprisingly warm compared with the wind that tore across the deck.
‘Quartermaster, you see the two French merchantmen at the tail of the convoy? Take me between them.’
The quartermaster was another new man, but he appeared competent. At least he didn’t show any surprise at Holbrooke’s order. He nudged the steersman who eased the tiller to starboard, putting the gale fine on the sloop’s starboard quarter.
Kestrel’s manoeuvre caught Sauvage unawares, and it was a few minutes before the chasing frigate reacted, but soon she too bore away and set a course to intercept the sloop. Holbrooke watched her carefully. If the Frenchman had placed himself to the north of the convoy, then Holbrooke would have to abandon this bold manoeuvre. He still had time to turn south and evade Licorne, but he was gambling that Sauvage would be aggressive and seek to chase Kestrel, even into the heart of the convoy. And that was just what Holbrooke wanted.
‘Mister Lynton!’ called Holbrooke to his first lieutenant who was busily checking that his guns were ready for action. ‘A word with you, if you please.’
Lynton joined Holbrooke beside the mizzen shrouds where a small piece of canvas lashed to the lanyards served as a weather cloth and gave them some relief from the unpredictable spray that came in capfuls over the starboard quarter.
‘That fellow,’ Holbrooke pointed to larboard at Sauvage, ‘intends to push us to the south if he cannot come up with us. If he does that and plays the game through, then we’ll be forced into the Bay, and we’ll have Ushant between us and home. That’s the best case, the worst is that he catches us. But even if we escape to the south, with this wind, we could be delayed by days. That’ll never do, so I’m going to take Kestrel right through the rear of the convoy and dare those frigates to follow me.’
Lynton nodded. Holbrooke’s plan was indeed bold. It would create chaos where the Frenchman – with their greater firepower and stronger timbers – wanted order and certainty. His captain had an eye for evening the odds and a gambler’s acceptance of a calculated chance.
‘Have both batteries ready, and when you’ve fired off the round-shot, you can reload with chain. I’ve no intention of fighting that frigate, but if we get a chance to disable her, so much the better,’ said Holbrooke.
‘And if we can dismast one of those West Indiamen, it may impede the frigate,’ added Lynton, ‘and force the escorts to protect it.’
‘Just so, just so,’ replied Holbrooke, distractedly. His mind was busy calculating the best way to exploit this dynamic situation: the wind, the steady swell from the west with its crests whipped off by the dying gale, the actions of the convoy and the reactions of the two frigates. He could predict the first two, the wind and the sea, and he could be reasonably confident of the actions of the French merchantmen. The frigates were a different case. Their movements would be determined by their captains who had a host of conflicting motivations: duty, personal gain, revenge, their reputation. But Holbrooke knew that he held the initiative. In the end, the French captains would have to react to whatever he did next, and that gave him an edge.
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‘Deck there,’ shouted Shepherd from the masthead. ‘The frigate on our starboard bow hasn’t altered course, she’s still on the starboard quarter of the convoy.’
Three captains in four would have resented that call. Holbrooke hadn’t asked for the information and Shepherd wasn’t reporting a change, merely that nothing had changed. But Holbrooke realised that the lookout had understood what was in his captain’s mind and was offering information that he thought would be helpful, and he was right. Licorne couldn’t be seen from the deck, and it was vital to know if she left her station to join her sister ship in pursuing Kestrel. Most likely Licorne’s captain had decided that Sauvage could handle the situation and was content to keep a watch to the south in case any other British cruisers or privateers should appear.
‘Mister Varley, run up to the masthead and tell Shepherd that I appreciate his reports and he’s to keep me informed of Licorne’s movements.’
Holbrooke watched as Varley ran to the main shrouds. The master’s mate may have been older than most, but he showed his confidence aloft in the way that he sped lightly up the ratlines to the maintop, easily negotiating the futtock shrouds and continuing to the topmast head. He must have a lot of sea-time under his belt; more than Holbrooke for sure. If he was frustrated in his ambition to gain a King’s commission, he’d at least used his time well in developing the more physical arts of a seafarer.
‘Sauvage is still drawing aft, sir,’ said Lynton, squinting along the compass in its oaken binnacle. ‘It looks like she’s determined to follow us into the convoy rather than trying to cut us off.’
Holbrooke nodded curtly, the tension showing on his face. The captain of Sauvage was making an assumption – a fateful one he hoped – that Kestrel would use the convoy for protection and await her chance to make a break to the north. The Frenchman had decided that he didn’t want to play cat-and-mouse in the middle of this, France’s largest and richest convoy of the year, and was determined to pursue the British sloop and make a rapid end of her. Of course, he had the advantage of the wind which hadn’t shifted from the west even as the gale was subsiding and he could cover any move that Kestrel made. But Holbrooke had other ideas.
Picking up the speaking trumpet he called down to the waist. ‘Stand by to wear ship, hands to sheets and braces, brail the mizzen.’
‘Helm down, quartermaster,’ he said, restraining the impulse to shout. It was important that the quarterdeck should be a haven of calm for the next phase of his plan. ‘Steer for the
bows of that merchantman,’ and he pointed to the lonely French West-Indiaman, straggling on the larboard flank of the convoy.
Kestrel plunged in the swell as her stern came through the wind and a more massive wave burst against the taffrail, soaking Holbrooke and the quartermaster in a spray of salt water.
Holbrooke was absorbed in the manoeuvre, ensuring that Kestrel was settled on her new course. It would be at least thirty minutes before they could open fire on the merchantman – for that is what he intended – and it was vital that Kestrel should minimise that time, for Sauvage would certainly be overhauling them. What would the master of that West Indiaman be thinking? Would he try to evade Kestrel and risk losing his already precarious position in the convoy? Or would he plod along and trust to Sauvage to reach him before much damage was done? Holbrooke looked around the horizon. The approaches to the English Channel looked at their desolate worst, a wasteland of grey sea and grey sky, with a wind that was tearing at the tops of the swells and blowing them away to leeward in white streamers. The visibility was less than five miles and reducing in every squall that swept through from the west. Did the master of that French West Indiaman even know where he was? Probably he had a good idea of his latitude, but almost certainly he was relying upon de Kersaint’s navigation for his longitude, to avoid coming upon the coast of France in the darkness. Most likely he didn’t know whether Brest was a day away or four days, even if he knew that Brest was the convoy’s destination. In a moment of clairvoyance, Holbrooke became convinced that the French master, for a host of reasons, would curse his bad luck at being singled out by the pestilential British sloop, but he’d do nothing to lose his place in the convoy. He’d have to suffer one or two broadsides at worst, but Sauvage would save him before any real damage would be done.
‘Deck there,’ shouted Shepherd. ‘Sauvage is almost in our wake, she’s wearing now, following us.’
‘Thank you, Shepherd,’ replied Holbrooke through his speaking trumpet.
Things were moving fast now, and Kestrel was rapidly coming up on the merchantman at the tail of the convoy. Holbrooke looked back to check the position of the French frigate. She was neatly in the sloop’s wake, which now put her a little to leeward, so the first part of the plan was working.
‘Mister Lynton. Run out the starboard battery and close the larboard ports. Then come aft for a moment if you please.’
‘Quartermaster, yaw a little to starboard once the guns are showing, let the Frenchman see our battery.’
Lynton walked the short distance back towards the quarterdeck. There was no ladder to climb because in common with most ship-rigged sloops of this size, the Dutch builders had given her a flush upper deck so that the quarterdeck and fo’c’sle were honorary names only, with no real demarcation from the waist. It gave Holbrooke’s command a wonderfully democratic feel.
‘I’m letting the Frenchman see our guns run out to starboard, Charles,’ he said in the near-privacy of the space in front of the taffrail. ‘He’ll assume that we’re planning to pass astern of the merchantman,’ Holbrooke inclined his head to the French West Indiaman only half a mile ahead, ‘so have all the crews attend to the starboard battery but when I give the word let them run out and engage to larboard.’
‘Aye-aye sir,’ Lynton replied and turned to give his orders, but Holbrooke held his arm.
‘It’s important that the Frenchman believes we’re planning to rake the merchantman from astern, Charles.’ Holbrooke looked at the dog-vane. ‘The wind’s veering as this gale weakens so he’ll place himself to windward, on our larboard side. Remember, when I give the word, run out the larboard battery, and reload with chain after the first broadside.’
Lynton walked deliberately forward to the nominal waist where his gun crews were busy preparing the starboard battery. Between them, Carlisle and Holbrooke had cured him of running from place to place. It really wasn’t necessary to move fast in such a small ship, and the men were always disturbed by the sight of an officer apparently losing his equanimity. It was always better to walk unless, of course, boarders were called, or the ship took fire.
Holbrooke could clearly see the men clustered at the taffrail of the merchantmen. As he watched, a man who looked like the ship’s master gave a sideways gesture with his arm, and they all moved forward, leaving the steersman and the master as the only men remaining to face Kestrel’s fire. Little did they know of Holbrooke’s plan.
Looking over his shoulder, Holbrooke could see that Sauvage was moving to windward. Really, that was the correct thing to do to both protect the merchantman and cut off Kestrel’s escape to the north. Looking to starboard, Holbrooke could see that Licorne hadn’t changed her station at all; she was still on the starboard quarter of the convoy, to leeward now, but she would no doubt leave her station to intercept Kestrel if Holbrooke attempted to escape in that direction.
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Closer and closer. Holbrooke could now see the whole sweep of the merchantman’s deck. Apart from the master and steersman, there was no sign of her crew; they had all taken cover below decks. If he’d been really intending to rake the merchantman’s stern – the obvious and most effective manoeuvre – he’d have to draw right up on her quarter until his bowsprit overlapped her taffrail before ordering the helm put down to deliver the deadly weight of Kestrel’s broadside. Sauvage was now half a mile to windward ready to pounce, whatever Kestrel did after that first broadside. Holbrooke was watching intently, every sense attuned to the slightest change in the situation.
‘Deck Ho!’ came the urgent call from Shepherd. ‘I can see the crew of the merchantman creeping to their sail-handling stations, keeping really low like they don’t want us to see.’
Yes! Now he could see them, furtive figures taking halyards and sheets in hand. They must be planning to spill their wind and frustrate Kestrel’s turn under their stern. That would be a shrewd move if Holbrooke had indeed planned the raking manoeuvre. If they had guessed at his real intent, their most dangerous move would be to turn hard to starboard and run aboard the sloop, then wait for the frigate to come up and force Kestrel to strike. As it was, the Frenchman was playing into Holbrooke’s hands.
‘She’s letting her sheets fly and dropping her tops’ls, sir,’ shouted Shepherd.
Sure enough, the orderly press of sail was reduced in an instant to an unruly mass of flogging canvas and topsail yards slamming against their masts. The merchantman’s speed dropped off fast, and Kestrel started to race up her starboard side. The French master looked back at Kestrel to see the result of his stratagem. Holbrooke could see the consternation written on his face as Kestrel moved menacingly up his starboard side, then he saw the consternation turn to alarm as the guns were run out on the sloop’s larboard side.
‘Fire as you bear, Mister Lynton,’ called Holbrooke. He was in half a mind to spare the merchantman. All Kestrel’s broadsides could achieve was death, maiming and destruction; there was very little chance of the vessel being destroyed and no chance of it being taken. But he knew that he had to harden his heart. Any loss of the value of the French cargo was a useful gain for Britain, and the French were so short of experienced sailors that the elimination of even a handful would be of value. And of course, if the Frenchman was crippled the whole convoy would be delayed, or she’d be left behind to become prey for one of the many British privateers cruising in the waters off Ushant and the Bay of Biscay.
Half of Kestrel’s eight larboard six-pounder balls slammed into the French hull at short range. Their effect was hardly impressive, but Holbrooke could see gaps in the gunwales, and a blur of movement around the tiller as at least one of the steersmen was brought down.
‘Chain shot!’ shouted Lynton to his excited men. ‘Quoins out and aim for the tops. A bottle of kill-devil to the gun that brings down a topmast.’
‘Quartermaster, we’ll run past her and cross her bow close hauled on the larboard tack. When the frigate comes down on us, we’ll tack under her bow. Do you understa
nd?’ asked Holbrooke.
‘Yes sir, we’ll need some distance from her bow.’
‘There goes her fore-topmast,’ shouted Shepherd, ‘and it’s dragging at her main topmast. There she goes,’ he cried excitedly as the once trim ship became floating wreckage.
The larboard battery was firing smoothly, each gun captain pressing his linstock to the priming pan as soon as his gun was ready and pointed. They’d achieved three broadsides; one of round-shot and two of chain, and still Sauvage was fighting to get into position. The merchantman was no longer under command and was turning fast to larboard as her mizzen, which should have been brailed by now, caught the dying gale and without the leverage of her fore-topsail and headsails, forced the ship’s head into the wind. They’d taken casualties too. There was no-one at the helm, and the few men that could be seen on deck were scurrying to find the best shelter. One brave, rational soul ran aft and slashed at the ensign halyard with his knife. The white of France came rushing down, but there was no chance of Kestrel taking possession, and with Sauvage still very much in the fight, all Holbrooke could do was continue pounding her.
‘Where’s Sauvage now?’ shouted Holbrooke to the masthead. The gunsmoke was making it impossible to see much beyond the stricken merchantman.
‘She’s coming down on us fast, sir. Four cables to windward of the merchantman and she’ll be able to engage us in five minutes.’
This was working better than Holbrooke had anticipated.
‘Bosun, get the men to their sail-handling stations. I’ll be bringing her about in two minutes.’
The sound of the bosun’s call penetrated through the din of battle, and two men from each gun ran to their allotted stations.