by Alaric Bond
"Signal from Circe, repeat all ships," his voice was bright with excitement as he trained his glass on Russell. "Flag in sight!"
The cheering and yelling went on, despite roars and threats from the petty officers, until Kate firmly replaced the stopper on the grog cask, and motioned to the stewards for it to be taken away. Suddenly order was restored, and the men returned to obediently queuing for their ration, although there remained a lightening in the atmosphere that nothing could have quelled.
"Where away?" Banks asked Dorsey, who was still studying Russell.
"There’s another hoist, sir." he paused, counting off the numbers silently before giving the answer without reference to his book. "North west," he turned and beamed: "Coming down with the wind!"
The men’s enthusiasm was infectious, and Banks found himself chuckling like a satisfied child as the officers began to beam and smack each other on the back. Duncan might be poorly equipped with worn out and obsolete ships, but he had come to sea without hesitation, and rather than being trapped against a lee shore, even now was bearing down on the enemy. There would be a battle now; that was for certain.
"Three cheers for Old Adam!" The officers grinned as the shouts rolled out, with Jenkins adding the obligatory tiger. Banks noticed the smiles and banter, the energy and optimism that had been so lacking. It was a different group of men to those who had spent the last few days in the presence of an overwhelmingly superior enemy. One slip, one wrong or misinterpreted order, and the Dutch would have had them; now they could hope to meet on slightly more equal terms. With Duncan in sight and an accommodating wind they should close by the following day. They had one more night to survive, although with the enemy neatly caught, there seemed little chance that they could escape battle. By tomorrow evening it should be settled and either the Dutch would be silenced, or the British North Sea Fleet would cease to exist, and the long threatened invasion could finally begin.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
DUNCAN was on the quarterdeck of Venerable by first light the following morning. Like all in the British fleet, the flagship was carrying as much sail as the brisk wind would allow, as she headed for the Dutch coast and the enemy. On Venerable’s starboard beam the frigate Circe could just be seen from the deck, as she shadowed the Dutch. Beyond her Russell, and the rest of the observation squadron, already augmented by some from the main North Sea Fleet, were heading to meet up; with luck they would join, or at least be within direct signalling distance, before long. It would have been better to have met with Trollope; a brief discussion with all captains before action might iron out any last minute confusions. But the officers knew each other well enough; more to the point, they knew him, and his intentions: Duncan would far rather have a group of informed, professional men under him and no pre-set battle plan, than precise instructions with every perceived eventuality covered, and a bunch of fools to follow them. The decks were steaming gently in the fresh early sun, although all on board knew that the fine start would not see the day out. Captain Fairfax had also breakfasted early, and was talking with Cleland, his first lieutenant. Duncan strolled across and acknowledged their salutes with a dignified raising of his own hat.
"Gentlemen, I trust all is prepared for today’s activities?"
"We are ready, sir," Fairfax replied. "Carpenter still reports a fair amount gathering in the well, but we have cleared all for now, and two hours a watch is considered sufficient to keep it at bay until it can be attended."
It was unfortunate that the steady leaking Venerable had been suffering from for some while should suddenly have increased on the very eve of action; pumping was exhausting work, and both Fairfax and Duncan knew that it would take very little damage to Venerable’s worn out hull to make matters considerably worse. In fact the chances were high that, whether they met with success or defeat, the British flagship would be sunk by the end of the day.
"Very good, William, I am sure you have done all that can be," he lowered his voice slightly. "You are happy with the people?"
"Morale seems high, admiral. The men are eager for action."
Duncan turned to the lieutenant and raised his eyebrows enquiringly.
"I could not ask for more, sir. And I believe it is the same in other ships. It’s difficult to believe…" Cleland left the sentence unfinished, not wishing to bring up memories of the mutiny on such a morning.
"Difficult to believe that we have a full fleet, and that seven of our number were actively against us barely months ago?" Duncan smiled briefly and nodded. "There were mistakes on both sides, but all is in the past. The lads will have every opportunity to show their worth today, and a glorious victory shall surely wipe the slate clean." He turned back to Fairfax. "Tell me, captain, there is nothing pressing for the while?"
"No, sir; all is quiet."
"Then be so good as to summon the men."
They came in silence, and stood waiting expectantly in the waist, the able and ordinary seamen, landsmen, boys, artisans, idlers, warrant and petty officers and supernumeraries. The officers gathered on the quarterdeck and the marines, brilliant in pipe clayed white, shining silver and rich red coats, formed in crisp ranks, seemingly becoming part of the fabric of the ship. Only those actually keeping the watch, the helmsmen, quartermaster and lookouts, remained at their posts, and there were no wry comments or grousing from the watch below; all knew why they had been called, and all, be they Christian, pagan or undefined, were willing, almost grateful, to be there.
Once assembled Duncan strode to the break of the quarterdeck, and looked down as a deep, uniting silence came upon them all. He stretched his hands out wide and seemed to gather all together as one, holding them with his very presence. Then, in a soft but penetrating voice that carried throughout the ship and into every man’s heart, he called for approval on the day; committed them all to their God, and asked for protection in the coming battle. He spoke as one with certain knowledge, rather than faith, and his authority was such that the assembly was spellbound, finally breaking up without the usual chattering and jokes that seem intrinsic to seamen after any formal gathering. Duncan had known nearly all present for many years. For many years he had nurtured and guided; at times standing both for, and up to them. They were thought of as his lads; indeed there had been occasions when he had acted as their father, and all had been done so that they could stand together on this day. And now, unspoken, but universally acknowledged, he gave them his final blessing. There was nothing more he could do: nothing more that could be done, and yet all were content and supremely confidant that it was enough.
* * * * *
The observation squadron had been joined by several ships from Duncan’s fleet with Admiral Onslow, once more back in Monarch, leading in loose order to the north east. The two groups of British warships were still several miles apart although, if the wind held steady, they were expected to be as one before noon. Pandora, to the south and closest to the rump of the Dutch fleet, was at the very end of the line, with Russell close by. The enemy was in plain view directly ahead with all sensible sail set, and heading for their own coast in three columns, on a course roughly north-northeast.
"Belike they’ve seen enough and are heading for home," Caulfield said. "Can’t say that I’ve ever wanted a fight, but t’would be a pity to have come so far and still return disappointed."
"They wouldna be heading for home."
Caulfield turned back surprised. "What say, master?"
"They’re makin’ for the shallows," Fraiser looked up from his chart. "Keep the same course and they’ll hit the coast roughly fifteen miles south of the Texel."
Caulfield sauntered across and peered over Fraiser’s shoulder.
"So, what is there that draws them?"
A stubby, ink-stained finger pointed out the bleak coastline. "Nothing to speak of; a few small villages, no shore batteries, as far as we know; just shallows."
"The Dutch draw a good deal less than our liners," Caulfield continued. "D’you think t
hey might be trying to avoid action by sheltering in the shoals?"
"The Dutch won’t avoid action," King had joined them and was strangely confident. Even though he had done all he could to avoid spreading despondency, de Winter’s words were still with him.
Caulfield looked up and at the enemy fleet. "So why do they not tack; our fleet remains divided, they could go hell for leather for one group and we would be the worse for it."
Fraiser nodded sadly. "The Dutch are no fools. Why should they fight a pitched battle on the open sea when they can choose the place, and a better one at that? These are their home waters; they know them as well as we do the Solent. Take us over to the shoals where we, with our deep hulls and inferior knowledge, have to keep feeling for the depth; they can run amuck atween us, and if any try to follow the chances are strong that we’ll ground. Then they can pick us off at their leisure."
It made sense, but was not the most heartening of views.
"Signal, Dorsey!" King had spotted movement on Beaulieu. The frigate was stationed to the west of their small group, and repeated messages from Duncan’s squadron.
"From flag, general signal, prepare for battle."
King and Caulfield exchanged glances; Pandora had been ready for almost a week. "Shall we beat to quarters?" King asked.
Caulfield shook his head. "The captain’s still below, there’ll be time enough for that."
By nine the position had changed little; the enemy fleet was still well out of range, although the British groups had closed upon them. Banks, who had breakfasted well in his screened off quarters, had appeared an hour back, and was now holding the deck with King, while Caulfield and Fraiser ate a hurried meal below. Another signal came from Beaulieu and Dorsey, who was squatting next to his flag locker sucking on a biscuit, sprang up to read it.
"It’s to Circe," he reported after a few seconds. "Flag’s ordering her to close up."
At that moment the masthead lookout bellowed from above. "Sail! Sail in sight on the larboard beam." Banks and King instinctively turned in that direction, but nothing could be seen past the ships of their own group.
"Colours?"
"Not as yet, sir, but we’re closing fast. I’d say she were the Triumph; she ‘as her rig: I knows her bowsprit, it’s a high one."
Banks smiled at King. "Seems like we’re nearing the admiral’s squadron."
"There’s more," Ford, at the masthead continued. "More behind, what look to be British, an’ she’s the Triumph, sure as a gun."
"Signal from flag to Russell," Dorsey again. "Close with the flag."
"I think we’re there, Mr King," Banks beamed as if he had just been invited to a particularly pleasant social gathering. "Time to beat to quarters, I fancy."
The marine drummer mounted the quarterdeck and began to pound out a tattoo that resounded throughout the small ship as the hands made for their battle stations. Fraiser and Caulfield hurried up the companionway and joined the other officers.
"Get some breakfast, Thomas," Banks said as they arrived. "There’s time enough for that, and to shift your clothes if you’ve a mind. Don’t forget; britches and silk stockings are for a fighting man."
King turned to his captain.
"So much better for the surgeon if he comes to operate, don’t you know?" Banks gave another boyish smile, and King left, wondering slightly.
At nine twenty-two Duncan signalled once more, ordering his fleet to form a line on a starboard bearing to allow the slower ships to catch up, but by ten it was clear that their speed was not sufficient and a general signal was made for all ships to make more sail. Pandora, one of the smallest in the British force, was still the furthest to the south. In a general fleet action there might be little for her to do, other than relay signals and possibly take possession of a prize. Few heavy battleships would waste their time or shot on her, when there were larger and more potent ships to face. But de Winter was sailing with several frigates and brigs, small stuff that would be in a similar position to Pandora, and Banks was silently hoping he might wage his own private battle.
By eleven the heaviest Dutch ships had formed into a single line of battle, with their smaller craft, the frigates, brigs and corvettes, to the lee. It was clear that the British would join with them to windward in two distinct groups, with Duncan leading seven line-of-battleships to the north in Venerable, and Onslow with nine that included two fifty gun fourth rates, to the south. By then the enemy’s force had been correctly assessed and it was clear that the British were outnumbered both in ships and guns, although the fact was considered purely academic by all who knew it. For the next hour they crept closer. Texel, home and safety, lay barely twenty miles off, and Duncan knew that if the Dutch were to escape this time his force would spend the next ten years blockading them.
"General signal," Dorsey’s voice rang out once more. "Bear up and sail large."
The officers on the quarterdeck exchanged glances; it would not be long now. King turned to Banks. "With your permission, sir, I will attend to the guns."
"Indeed, Mr King." The two men nodded briefly, not knowing if each would see the other again, before King turned and made his way down the quarterdeck steps.
"General signal," Dorsey’s voice cracked this time. "Pass through the enemy’s line and engage to leeward."
Banks glanced at Fraiser. "What depth have we, master?"
"A fair amount here, sir, but less than nine fathoms yonder," the Scotsman pointed just ahead of where the enemy were closing up to create a veritable wall of fire, not five miles from their own shoreline. "If we are to take them it must be soon; the shallows increase further as we near the Texel."
The captain stroked his chin contemplatively "Our line ships shall have to fight their way through as it is: there will be little room to spare."
Fraiser was still looking at the Dutch, his demeanour as dispassionate as ever as his mind calculated angles and positions. For the British to penetrate and break the enemy line they would have to approach at a steep angle. And the enemy were holding extremely close order; packed tight, they would present an apparently impenetrable barrier. The vast majority of the British guns would be totally useless until they had actually punched their way through. Then they might well create havoc, raking ships on either side, but to reach that position would entail surviving several unanswered broadsides. There could be no doubt: it would be carnage.
"The admiral means to close on their beams?" Caulfield had caught on now, and was looking suitably concerned.
"Aye, that would seem to be his plan," Banks voice was steady and considered. "Not an enviable role for the liners, though one, I think, that might stop the Dutch before they reach the shallows, and that is clearly what Duncan is about."
The first drops of rain fell just after noon, as Monarch, well to the fore, began to nose her way towards the tightly packed Dutch battle line. A puff of smoke came from the nearest enemy ship, followed immediately by a full two deck broadside, although Onslow’s flagship seemed to weather the barrage as if it were nothing but spray and spindrift. Watched by all, the British ship edged closer. Another broadside rolled out from a Dutch seventy-four.
"They’re aiming low, at the decks," Caulfield commented, his eyes glued to the action taking place not a mile from him.
"Aye, the Dutch don’t follow French tactics," Banks was also watching fascinated. "They won’t be happy with knocking away a few spars; expect them to fire on the downward roll, hit the hull and the men in it; destroy the ship, not merely force it to a halt."
"Why does the admiral not fire with his for’ard guns?" Caulfield asked.
"Maybe he thinks they might kill the wind, besides they would do little good, whereas if he can get through the line…"
Another broadside came, and another after that, but still the British ship continued. Powerful and Veteran were also approaching now, and starting to feel the enemy’s wrath, but Monarch was so much closer and beginning to be obscured by smoke from the Dutch broads
ides.
Banks looked again at the sternmost ship, up at the sails, and then to Fraiser, whom he considered just as carefully. "Master, I want us to starboard of the enemy." His tone was deliberate and flat.
Fraiser was taken aback, and turned to the captain. "To starboard, sir?"
"Indeed, we cannot pass through the line, but we might meet with those who have done so." Still he watched the sailing master with care. "Take us about the rearmost ship; we might even catch them unawares with a broadside to their stern, but once on the lee, we can meet up and fight it out with their frigates."
Caulfield turned, a look of concern on his face, as Fraiser considered the angles carefully. Pandora was approaching with the rear of the enemy line fine off her starboard bow, it would take no very great alteration of course to follow the captain’s wishes. They might even make their approach in relative safety; the attention of the last Dutch ship would be on the British liners. But once past, the fun would certainly begin, especially if Pandora despatched her puny broadside into the fourth rate’s tail. A twenty-eight gun sixth rate could never hope to silence a two-decker with one single rake, but the larger ship would be bound to take greater notice when the frigate had passed and rounded her stern. The Dutch starboard battery would be unfired and the small ship that had just inflicted such a painful blow would be a perfect target. Both Fraiser and Caulfield were in no doubt that Banks’ plan was verging on the insane. Men would die, Pandora would probably be destroyed, and all in a futile attempt to join in an action fought by ships that totally outclassed a tiny frigate.