by Chris Durbin
‘Yes. Yes, please do,’ replied Holbrooke distractedly as he tried to keep an eye on the cutter that they were fast approaching.
‘It’s my belief, sir, that the French are preparing to abandon Emden, and they’re planning to take their heavy goods by river. The Ems is navigable for a good distance for barges like those. That’s what I’d do, sir. I’d load up the barges with my guns – they can’t leave those as trophies – and provisions for the journey and I’d march out in light order, and I’d follow the river as far as the barges can go.’
Treganoc paused, perhaps wondering how far he should press his opinions.
‘If I were a betting man, I’d say that when they saw the longboat, they made a snap decision to withdraw. Probably they’d been considering it for days – as Major Albach said – but the sight of our boats sounding the approaches persuaded them.’
‘Then the bluff may have worked, sir,’ said Lynton, smiling.
‘It may be no bluff, gentlemen. I fancy Mister Stretton in Acrias may have news for us. If the commodore is on his way, then our bluff is about to become a reality!’
◆◆◆
‘Welcome to the Ems Estuary, Mister Stretton. You have word from the commodore, I imagine,’ said Holbrooke when they were in the cabin.
Lieutenant Stretton had come over in the cutter’s jolly-boat as soon as Kestrel had backed her tops’ls alongside Acrias off Delfzijl. He was a man of medium height, quite dark in complexion and he had a pronounced limp which was emphasised by the effort that was required to haul himself over the gunwale into the sloop. Probably he was going no further in the service; their Lordships would be wary about promoting a man with such a disability unless he did something spectacular. Holbrooke found it easy to accept their roles and the older man showed no signs of the resentment that Holbrooke had detected when they had met before, in Harwich.
‘Yes indeed, sir. I have no written orders for you, but the commodore sends his greetings. He hopes that he’ll meet you inside Borkum tomorrow, the eighteenth, during the forenoon. He’d be obliged if you’d have the charts of the estuary ready as soon as he arrives, as he wishes to waste no time in showing his squadron off Emden. Meanwhile, I’m to place myself under your command until he arrives.’
Now that was interesting. Of course, it needed no saying that as the senior of the two officers, Holbrooke could expect – no he could demand – that Stretton obeyed his orders. But that was the point, it needed no saying, but nevertheless, the commodore had specifically sent that message. Was it meant for Holbrooke or for Stretton? Was this a polite way for Holmes to reinforce the point? Did he fear that otherwise Stretton may have a different view of their relationship? Only a score or so years ago it would have been entirely possible that an officer may decline to take orders from a more senior officer, but since then the navy had been professionalised. It had been a process that had been underway for some years, and the act of 1749 had cemented it.
Holbrooke looked at Stretton. His face was neutral, perhaps he saw nothing unusual in this verbal communication from the commodore to his commander, delivered by a lieutenant. Holbrooke could detect no hostility in his honest features. He thought quickly.
‘Very well. Perhaps I can ask you to speak to Mister Fairview for a few moments, then I’ll have some orders for you.’
‘Aye-aye sir,’ replied Stretton, slipping easily into the conventional response from a lieutenant to a commander, rather than the less formal tones between two captains of King’s ships. He added, almost as an afterthought, ‘The squadron is one frigate less; Charity ran aground in the Jade and has returned to Harwich. Only Seahorse and Strombolo will be at the rendezvous.’
◆◆◆
‘Don’t bother to seal it, Mister Pritchard,’ he said to his clerk. ‘I’ll be handing it directly to Captain Stretton, and I’ll require him to read it in my presence.’
It was a tricky situation. Holbrooke intended to modify the verbal orders that Stretton had brought. It was vital that Commodore Holmes should have the charts as soon as he arrived, but it was also crucial – in Holbrooke’s opinion – that the pressure was maintained on the fleeing French. If they came to believe that they’d been bluffed, then would they cancel their withdrawal? Would they unload the boats, recall the marching orders and remain in Emden? Holbrooke had learned a little about armies when he’d been at the siege of Fort St. Philip in Minorca, and he knew the importance of momentum. If the French were moving, then they should be encouraged to continue. Kestrel’s place now was off the approaches to Emden Road, his guns trained on the city – even though out of range – to convince the French commander that his withdrawal was militarily inevitable.
‘Pass the word for Captain Stretton, if you please, Mister Pritchard. And the master and the first lieutenant.’
◆◆◆
‘Mister Stretton, here are your orders. Please open them now and read them.’
Stretton unfolded the single sheet of paper. He read that he was to take the charts for the squadron – Fairview had made five copies and appended last-minute notes on the soundings in the approaches – and he was to meet the commodore at the rendezvous that was ordered for Kestrel, and there deliver the charts and a letter that Holbrooke would provide before they parted. It was immediately clear that Holbrooke was planning to disobey the orders that Stretton had brought from the commodore. He looked questioningly at Holbrooke but said nothing.
‘You deserve an explanation, Mister Stretton, as you’ll have to face the commodore when he arrives in the estuary to find Acrias but not Kestrel.’
Stretton nodded almost imperceptibly. He evidently agreed that it may be a sticky moment.
‘The French are on the move, withdrawing from the city because they believe that an attempt is to be made against them from the sea. My concern is that if Kestrel is out of sight, then they may change their minds and the whole job of undermining their confidence will have to be done again. As soon as you’re back in Acrias, I’ll signal for you to follow me and we’ll anchor in sight of the city again. The boats will be sent further up the western approach to encourage them to believe that they can escape to the east. As soon as the sun sets, you will leave me to make the rendezvous with the commodore. I’m sending Mister Fairview with you because he knows these waters better than anyone now, certainly better than the Dutch or the French, and he drafted the charts.’
Fairview smiled broadly. He also was ambitious and piloting the squadron into a hostile estuary that he’d personally surveyed could be just the lift he needed.
◆◆◆
24: Tightening the Noose
Saturday, Eighteenth of March 1758.
Kestrel, at Anchor. The Dollart.
Lynton, Treganoc and Jackson were studying the chart of Emden by the light of a lantern in Kestrel’s cabin. Acrias had weighed and dropped down the channel as soon as it was too dark for watchers on the walls of the city to see what she was doing. Darkened and under only her mainsail and jib, she’d slipped away to the north without any fuss, taking Fairview and his rolled-up charts for the rendezvous with the commodore.
‘You’ll set off shortly after midnight, gentlemen. The bosun will lead the way in the yawl. You’ll be able to find the channel in the dark, Mister Jackson?’
‘Aye, sir. There are lights on the shore, and the island and the city are lit up like Christmas. If we sound carefully as we go, we’ll be able to get right up to the walls.’
‘It’ll be nearly the top of the tide when you start,’ said Holbrooke. ‘Feel your way up the landward side of the channel on the four-fathom line, you can buoy the island side on your way back.’
‘Mister Lynton. Keep close astern of the yawl and sink your buoys at half-mile intervals. Be sure to follow the yawl closely and don’t waste time sounding, your job at this stage is to lay the buoys accurately in the yawl’s wake.’
Holbrooke knew that if both boats sounded independently, the temptation to discuss the results would be too great, and
at this point in the expedition, before they reached the city, they needed silence.
‘Should we pass a line between us, sir?’ asked Lynton. ‘It would ensure that we stay in sight.’
‘No, it will impede you too much. You’ll be able to see each other well enough when the moon rises.’
Jackson nodded in agreement. He had more experience in small boats than any of them, and he knew the horrible complications of joining two boats together: the stop-and-start as one boat moved faster than the other, the inevitable calls between the two. No, it was better to rely on keeping in sight.
‘When you come within range of the southwest corner of the city, you are to bombard the walls. You’ll do little damage, but a two-pounder makes plenty of noise, and the flash will be tremendous on a dark night. Five rounds should do it; keep the other five in reserve in case of emergencies. Mister Treganoc, your men are drilled on the boat-gun?’
‘They are, sir,’ replied the marine lieutenant. Two months ago, he’d have resented the implication that Holbrooke was checking that he was doing his duty, but he’d settled into the ways of Kestrel and understood the need to emphasise the point. It would be a poor time to be learning gun drills when the longboat was under the walls of Emden.
‘Then I expect you’ll be exposed for no more than ten minutes,’ said Holbrooke. ‘I’d be surprised if the French manage to get a shot away in that time, even if their guns aren’t all loaded into their boats by now.’
The longboat had made a brief foray into the eastern approach before the sun had set. Lynton had confirmed that the boats were still being loaded; they didn’t look as though they’d be moving that night.
‘Mister Jackson, count the shots, and as soon as Mister Treganoc has fired his five, you can start leading back down the channel, keeping to the island side; the four-fathom line again.’
‘Remember, gentlemen, a blue rocket from Kestrel is your signal to return as quickly as possible. If I hear more than five guns from you or see your blue rocket, I’ll know that you’re in trouble and I’ll take action accordingly.’
What action he’d take was a moot point. Kestrel had no more boats except for a tiny gig, and he wouldn’t take the sloop up the channel into Emden in the dark on what would be an ebbing tide. It was clear to all that once the boats had been sent away from Kestrel, they were on their own and would have to deal with any emergencies as they happened. This expedition was part of the pressure that he was putting on the French garrison. All the indications were that they were planning to abandon Emden tomorrow, but Holbrooke didn’t want to give the French commander any chance to change his mind. A night bombardment followed by the dawn when they’d see that the eastern channel had been buoyed to facilitate moving men-of-war up to the walls should reinforce the decision to move out and make it imperative that they do so as soon as possible.
◆◆◆
‘Oars,’ called Lynton in a near-whisper. The men rested with their blades parallel to the surface of the water as the longboat continued to creep forward under her own momentum. They were right under the walls now, at about two cables distance and they hadn’t yet been observed. Jackson in the yawl was a cable astern. The boats could see each other very well in the light of this waxing, gibbous moon just past its first quarter and only partly concealed by a thin mist laying over the water. They knew it would be more difficult for the soldiers on the city walls – if there were any – because their night-vision would be impaired by the inevitable fires that would be burning on such a cold night.
The buoying of the landward side of the channel had been successful. The yawl had crept along the four-fathom line guided by the whispered calls of the leadsman. On this dark night, he had to rely on touch and shades of grey to tell the marks. Two and three fathoms were marked by a piece of leather twisted into the lay of the sounding line, there was a piece of white rag at five fathoms, it’s pale colour just visible in the moonlight, and at seven a bit of red rag. In this shallow water, he didn’t need to cast the lead; he could pay out the line between his hands. His practised fingers felt the pieces of leather, and then he could see the white rag and judge how much extra line had been needed to reach the bottom. The longboat had followed close behind, almost in touching distance, and seven small buoys had been slid quietly over the side on eight-fathom bridles with a six-pound ball each as an anchor. There was a lot more room in the boat now, enough for the gun crew to prepare their weapon for firing while the remaining buoys were moved aft.
‘Stroke oars only now,’ whispered Lynton, as he watched the hand signals from Treganoc in the bow. He was lining up the longboat for the first shot; the boat gun was fixed in position in the bows and it was necessary to manoeuvre the whole boat to point at the target.
‘Two pulls starboard.’
The boat’s bow moved to the left, lining up on the small bastion on the southwestern point of the walls.
‘When you’re ready Mister Treganoc.’
The marine gun captain fiddled with the screw elevation, making sure that the ball would carry to the target, holding the linstock in his hand above the gunwale. Before the gun could be fired, there was a sudden noise of shouting from the city. It was tentative at first, sentries unsure of what they were seeing, but it was soon followed by loud, decisive orders and the clattering sound of armed men rushing towards the walls. They’d seen the glow of the slow-match in the bows of the longboat, but it hardly mattered; they’d only gained themselves a minute while the gun was accurately laid.
Bang! The sharp noise was tremendous on this dark night, and a tongue of red-and-orange flame leapt from the barrel of the gun as the longboat shuddered and jerked backwards a few feet under the recoil. Flashes of musketry could be seen, which was provident because the gun layer had lost sight of the dark walls. His pupils, which had been dilated as he stared into the dark night, had constricted as a reaction to the flash from the gun.
There appeared to be a dozen or so muskets firing at the boats, but at two cables – four hundred yards in land terms – there was little chance of an individual musket hitting its target. To make matters worse for the soldiers, although they could see the muzzle flash from the boat gun, in the two-minute interval between shots there was nothing to see, just a faint haze of gunsmoke illuminated by the moon. However, a dozen men firing a volley in the right general direction raised the probability considerably, and Lynton was aware of how vulnerable they were, all sitting upright in the boat.
‘Oarsmen lay down, get under the gunwales,’ he ordered, ‘strokes stay where you are.’ The two stroke oars looked at each other, one shrugged, and the other smiled in return. Fatalists both, or perhaps it was mere bravado.
Lynton continued to manoeuvre the boat to keep it pointing directly at the bastion. There was no way of knowing how successful they were, although twice they heard a distinct crash as a ball impacted on masonry, and once a cry of pain.
‘You’ve fired your five, Mister Treganoc,’ Lynton shouted, there was no need for silence now.
‘Five rounds fired,’ he replied, ‘and I fancy we scored a few hits.’
‘Then we’ll be away.’
The yawl had already turned and was heading south to the island side of the channel. Lynton steered the longboat into its wake and the gun crew, having reloaded, scrambled aft over the oarsmen to prepare the buoys. The French muskets were still firing, there were about twenty of them now. Treganoc, freed from his duties at the boat gun, levelled his own musket and fired over the larboard quarter in return.
‘First buoy ready,’ shouted the gun captain, raising his left hand.
They all heard the noise; it was something like a light hammer blow on a pile of wet rags. The gun captain let out an involuntary yell and fell across a thwart, blood pouring from his hand and spraying over Treganoc. An unlucky shot at extreme range had found its mark, the only British casualty so far in this blockade of the Ems.
‘Wrap it well,’ said Treganoc, ‘and if it keeps bleeding it’l
l need a turn around his arm just below the elbow. We’ll be back on board in two hours, and the doctor can see to you then.’ The gun captain grimaced. He’d been at sea in the last war and knew how his hand, and even his life, was in the balance, however proficient the doctor was.
‘Let’s get that buoy over the side,’ called Lynton, not wanting to miss his time.
◆◆◆
It was already dawn when the boats returned to Kestrel. The gun captain was handed up into the sloop and carried below to the surgeon. Despite the casualty, it had been a very successful operation. They’d buoyed the channel, they’d confirmed that the French had moved their artillery from the walls, and they’d reinforced the sense of impending doom that must by now be prevalent in Emden. Holbrooke was delighted, and even more so as he heard a hail from the lookout.
‘Sail ho! Three sails coming up the channel, sir. A frigate, a sloop and that cutter again. They’re under all plain sail, no spilling their wind this time.’
The yawl shot away from Kestrel’s side, impelled by a fresh crew who understood how the prestige of their ship was so often measured by the smartness of the handling of her boats.
‘Welcome, Captain Holbrooke,’ said Captain Taylor as the pipes came to an end on the final low note of the salute for captains coming aboard. ‘We hear that you haven’t been idle. But come below, the commodore is waiting for you.’
The squadron had anchored close to Kestrel and within sight of the southwestern bastion of the walls of Emden, the same bastion that the longboat had bombarded the previous night. If that sight didn’t persuade the French that their time in Emden was over, then nothing short of famine or siege would move them. They’d seen last night what a two-pounder boat gun could do, and now they were facing twenty-four nine-pounders, thirty six-pounders and the six four-pounders that Acrias contributed. Emden’s walls had been built for warfare in a different century, and her commander would know that he couldn’t win against the squadron that now lay just beyond range but clearly visible. The buoyed channel, which would surely have been pointed out to him by now, would only confirm that his tenure had run its course.