by David McDine
But in the limited pre-dawn light there was nothing but confusion on the slipway. And as more Frenchmen joined their comrades, their rate of fire steadily increased.
A marine fell and two more seamen went down, their blood blossoming out in the wavelets washing the slipway. Those who had just jumped ashore pressed forward, some colliding with those heading back to the boats.
Still in the cutter, ready to lead the boat assault on the privateer, Lieutenant Anson knew instinctively that a critical moment had been reached. With more of the enemy concentrating at the end of the mole, the slipway had become a death-trap. It was vital to re-embark everyone immediately, and to achieve that he needed to buy time.
He clutched Duff’s shoulder, shouting in his ear: ‘Take charge and get them aboard!’ and leapt for the slipway.
Above the din he yelled: ‘Get the wounded back in the boats!’ and splashed through the steadily rising water now covering half the slipway to where Howard was struggling to keep his footing.
Anson grabbed the first lieutenant’s arm. ‘You’re hurt. Go and get the boats away or all will be lost. McKenzie and I will cover you!’
Howard, as the senior officer, made as if to argue the point, but knew Anson was right, shrugged in resignation and hopped for the launch.
McKenzie was at the head of the slipway encouraging his marines and Anson splashed to his side shouting: ‘We need to hold them for a few minutes!’
A musket ball whined between them, making both flinch. This was not a time for shilly-shallying. For the marines, attack was reckoned to be the best form of defence. Without hesitation McKenzie, already hoarse from shouting, croaked: ‘Steady lads. Fix bayonets!’ There was an almost instant clash of metal on metal as bayonets were locked home.
‘Ready? Charge!’ And, to the astonishment of the nearest Frenchmen, a dozen red-jacketed marines led by two sword-wielding officers appeared out of the gloom, steel-tipped muskets to the fore.
The nearest Frenchmen turned tail and scuttled for cover, pursued for a few yards by the red English devils who knelt, fired, re-loaded and, at McKenzie’s order, retreated backwards down the slipway.
Anson glanced back at the boats. The charge had bought the raiding party precious minutes. In the rapidly improving light he could see that most of the other Phrynes, including several wounded, were back on board. To his front the French infantrymen, their numbers growing by the minute, could now see how few faced them and began to push forward again to shouts of ‘Allez, allez!’
Gripping McKenzie’s arm, Anson urged him: ‘Time to go, Ned!’
McKenzie called his men back and Anson gathered the handful of sailors still on the slipway.
A sudden searing pain in his leg made him stagger. He stumbled for a couple of steps, wincing – and instantly realised that, slowed down as he was, he was too far from the boats to make it back quickly. And if he held up the withdrawal all would be lost.
The crackle of French musketry continued as the surviving marines and sailors struggled across the slimy slipway to wade the last few steps and fling themselves into the boats.
Musket balls whining around them, the rowers began pulling on their oars, desperate to get clear.
Whoops from excited French infantrymen, agonised cries of the wounded and the desperate calls for a helping hand from those not yet embarked, added to the confusion and chaos.
But above the din, the first lieutenant could be heard shouting: ‘Back lads, quick as you can!’
McKenzie, now beside the jolly boat, was urging each of his men as they made it back to the boats: ‘Reload and fire at will!’
Further back down the mole, more Frenchmen were being hurried forward by their officers and sergeants with cries of ‘En avant!’
Despite the burning pain in his leg, Anson, now the last officer ashore, joined a lightly wounded marine corporal who was rallying the few men left on the slipway. The joker Robson was at his side muttering cheerfully: ‘Reet hot work this!’
Anson switched his sword to his left hand, pulled a pistol from his belt and fired towards the nearest Frenchmen, some in the act of kneeling and firing, others reloading.
With no hope of reloading himself, he turned the pistol to use as a club. But the Frenchmen showed no inclination to close for the moment. It was sufficient for them to pick off the raiders with musketry from a distance of no more than ten yards, a range which rendered their weapons – normally only effective for volley firing against a close-ranked enemy – accurate enough for this work.
To fight on would be suicidal. Anson dropped his pistol and, helped by Robson, limped down the slipway.
But as they neared the boats a French musket ball struck the Tynesider in the head, exited with a clout of blood, bone and brain, and felled Anson.
A marine stooped, decided that the lieutenant was a goner, and made for the last boat, a ball piercing his scarlet jacket and searing his arm as he flung himself aboard.
The first lieutenant shouted at him: ‘Where’s Mr Anson?’
‘He’s dead, sorr, shot through the ’ead!’
Howard nodded. This was not the time for inquests. Instead he turned his attention to the living and urged the boats’ crews: ‘Pull, damn you, pull!’ And to two dazed and slightly wounded sailors he growled: ‘Give a hand at the oars. But keep low!’
Two more men were hit as the launch pulled away after the other boats. And as more Frenchmen reached the end of the mole it seemed they would be able to pick off the rest of the escaping raiders almost at will.
But in the improving light the unfolding disaster had been witnessed through a glass from Phryne. The frigate had crammed on canvas, followed the boats round the Failaise d’Aval and was now preparing to recover the cutting-out party. A sighting shot from one of her 18-pounders struck the mole, splintering stonework and scattering the leading Frenchmen.
It was followed by another, and another, forcing the infantrymen to take cover and reducing the level of musketry directed against the escaping boats to a few, desultory, poorly-aimed balls.
As was the time-honoured custom of the sea, Captain Phillips had hoisted Phryne’s true colours before going into action, so it would not be long before the shore batteries returned fire.
The oarsmen pulled hard and within minutes were safe on the seaward side of the frigate.
And as soon as they were secured, Phryne altered course nor’east, standing away from the mole as the first ball from the shore batteries splashed into her rapidly-increasing wake.
3
Pacing the quarterdeck as Phryne left the cliff walls of Normandy far behind, Captain Phillips counted the cost. There would be no glory, no rapid promotion for Howard – and no prize money.
Instead, they were without the second lieutenant, confirmed dead on the mole, and two marines and three seamen who had been seen to fall during the action and were now missing – prisoners, if not dead.
Two more had been killed at their oars during the escape and been brought back rolling bloodily in the bilges to await a proper burial at sea, and several more were wounded, including one who would lose an arm.
This had been a bloody and wasteful business – all to no avail because Égalité would now complete her repairs and replenishment without further disturbance and live to cause more mischief another day.
It was time now for still more distasteful tasks. The captain returned to his cabin, flung down his hat and drew paper, pen and ink from his desk. There was a report to write to Admiral Leng, and a more difficult letter to Lieutenant Anson’s father – and him a parson to boot. That would require more than the usual platitudes.
*
On the mole, where but a short while earlier there had been frenetic activity and the din of battle, all was now strangely quiet apart from the groans of the wounded.
Once the retreating boats had pulled out of musket range from the mole, Phryne had ceased firing and slowly French infantrymen emerged from cover and advanced warily to check the wou
nded and search the English dead for valuables and souvenirs.
Not all were dead. Corporal Tom Hoover, his red jacket darkened by his own blood, lay back with his shoulders propped up against the stonework where he had dragged himself out of the water lapping the slipway.
There was something about the way the wounded but clearly unafraid and menacing corporal of marines stared at the Frenchmen that encouraged most to by-pass him.
Nevertheless, two were not put off searching the pockets of the nearby sailor with the shattered skull. Drawing a blank, they rolled him aside and turned their attention to the body of the naval officer sprawled beneath him. But they turned in alarm on hearing the wounded corporal growl: ‘Get back you heathens! Allez, or by God I’ll skin you alive!’
He had raised himself to a sitting position, bayonet in hand.
One of the body-searching Frenchmen picked up his musket and stepped towards the corporal swinging it like a club. There was no mistaking his intention – to smash this impudent marine’s skull.
But a French officer who had observed the drama unfold stepped forward, waved off the musket-swinger and addressed the wounded man in excellent English. ‘You are a brave man, but it would not be sensible to continue the battle. You are on the losing side and if you do not submit my men will kill you, just as you have killed their comrades.’ He indicated the sprawled bodies of several blue-jacketed Frenchmen.
Hoover nodded and turned the bayonet hilt towards the officer, who took it and handed it straight to the would-be executioner. ‘Souvenir d’une petite victoire.’ The man took it, sneered triumphantly at the wounded marine and moved away.
The French officer, gentlemanly of manners like those of the old regime rather than the newly-elevated types of the new republican order, shrugged and told Hoover: ‘It is for the best.’
After a while two horse-drawn carts arrived on the mole and a party of soldiers began throwing the bodies – French and English – into one and lifting the half dozen wounded into the other.
The bloodlust had cooled. And the presence of the French lieutenant who had saved Hoover from death by musket butt ensured that he and a diminutive foretopman called Fagg, now crippled with a broken ankle and apparently the only other survivor from the Phryne party left ashore, were helped into the second cart no more roughly than the French wounded.
*
How do you break the news to a proud father that the son he imagines to be a budding Howe or Rodney is dead? And how do you explain that the life of the young naval officer for whom his family had such high hopes has been squandered in a useless, aborted raid that would not rate a single line in the history books?
Pacing his cabin in Phryne, Captain Phillips pondered the wording of the letter he must write.
At least he could say that his second lieutenant had died bravely for his country, even if the cutting-out expedition had been so singularly unsuccessful. But then, how was he to have known that French infantry were there in force? So much for the quality of the intelligence from the admiral’s tame French royalist spy.
The attackers had been overwhelmed almost as soon as they set foot on the mole. From the survivors, the captain had learned that Anson was among the first to be wounded – in the leg – and then felled by a French musket ball through the head as he led a small rearguard trying to give the others time to regain the boats.
To Phillips, it was a huge relief that so many of the Phrynes had made it back to the boats and escaped under the frigate’s protective fire.
It was something of a miracle, made possible only by over-excited Frenchmen failing to press home their advantage in the half light on the mole, and the shore batteries coming into action so late and so ineffectively.
If Phillips were to be totally honest, he would have to admit that his second lieutenant had been no Howe or Rodney. In truth, despite being a distant kinsman of the circumnavigator Commodore George Anson, the young man had not been the ablest of seamen; a poor grasp of mathematics hampered his navigational skills; and he had been perhaps a little too familiar with the men.
But maybe, having grown accustomed to enduring the loneliness of command, this was the natural judgement of any captain of almost every junior officer. Stiff by nature, Phillips had tried hard not to envy confident, relaxed young officers like Anson.
A comfortable upbringing as second son of a wealthy churchman and extraordinary luck with prize money did not endear officers like him to Phillips, even though a large share of such riches came the captain’s way.
The achievement of post command had been a long hard ride for the captain. By comparison, advancement in the service seemed like a stroll for officers like Anson, especially anyone with a famous naval name, even if that kinship was many times removed.
Nonetheless, whatever the captain’s opinion of his second lieutenant, now was not the time to be mealy-mouthed. Now was the moment to be generous with his praise for an officer who had laid down his life for King and country: a hero.
He would be missed, certainly. There would be glum faces on the lower deck this night as news of his loss, and of the other casualties, spread – and the promise of prize money evaporated. The gunroom, too, would miss Anson’s wit and cheerful optimism. His unswerving sense of duty and natural courage would be a loss to the navy, but such qualities were hardly in short supply in a service in which hundreds of young officers were chasing promotion and a command of their own.
Now there would be one less thirsting for advancement that seemed to promise so much, but for many – Phillips included – could so easily become more like a poisoned chalice.
Finally satisfied that he knew the line to take, Phillips sat, dipped his pen and began scratching:
‘To the Revd Anson
The Rectory
Hardres Minnis
Near Canterbury
Kent
Dear Sir
It grieves me to have to inform you that your son Lieutenant Oliver Anson has been killed in action during an attack against the French at St Valery-en-Caux in Normandy. He was my trusted second lieutenant, a gallant, efficient and resourceful officer whom I had marked out as being worthy of further, early advancement, and I have no doubt that had he lived he would have achieved high rank and afforded his country valuable service. Sadly, that is not to be.
In brief, the circumstances of his death are these: he had volunteered, as I had come to expect of him, to take part in a boat attack aimed at cutting out a French privateer that had been harrying our coastal shipping. His party made a successful landing on the French coast, but the alarm was raised and a large party of French infantry bivouacked nearby forced them to withdraw. It was whilst fighting a gallant rearguard action that he and a number of others were cut down.
I am, Sir, only too acutely aware of the pain this sad intelligence will bring to the family that your son revered above all else but God and his duty. There is but one consolation: his was a hero’s end in keeping with the best traditions of the service and of his illustrious kinsman. In breaking the sad news to his mother, brothers and sisters, you can with certainty assure them that he not only died bravely at the head of his men, but that he did not suffer. Before withdrawing, his companions satisfied themselves that he had been struck in the head by an enemy musket ball and had clearly expired instantaneously. They were loath to leave his body where he fell, but were forced by superior numbers to make good their withdrawal rather than suffer further casualties. However, despite their national animosity towards England, I am confident that the French will recognise gallant foes as we do, and will give your son and his fellows a decent Christian burial. The personal effects he left on board will be forwarded when we next reach a home port.
I am, sir, your obedient servant
George Phillips, Captain, Royal Navy.’
Then, remembering that the recipient was a clergyman, he added a postscript:
‘The entire ship’s company will remember your son and his grieving family in our prayers o
n board HMS Phryne on Sunday.’
After sealing the letter ready for the mails that would be passed to the next Dover-bound vessel encountered, and calling for the first lieutenant to ensure that the ship would be rigged for church on Sunday, Phillips sent for the ship’s muster roll.
In addition to basic information about each member of the ship’s company, capital letters had to be inserted alongside the name of anyone who left, indicating what had happened to them, such as D for Discharged and R for Run, meaning deserted.
Against the name of Oliver Anson, Second Lieutenant, he wrote DD – the navy’s laconic shorthand for Discharged Dead.
*
At the end of the mole the wounded were unloaded from the cart and stretchered into a stone building that reeked of fish. Fagg was laid unceremoniously on his back beside the French casualties. He grinned at Corporal Hoover: ‘S’pose we’re prisoners of the Frogs now, eh?’
The marine had brushed aside an orderly and, clutching his wounded left shoulder, seated himself on a fish crate by the door. ‘Guess so.’
‘I just ’ope they feed us with summink better’n frogs’ legs and all that other crap they eat.’
Hoover shrugged. ‘At least we’re still here.’
The two had only known one another by sight on board, but must now team up since there were no others.
A surgeon arrived with two more orderlies and began examining the wounded, French first.
Outside, the infantry officer who had persuaded Hoover to surrender his bayonet, returned with a sergeant armed with a notebook and the precious stub of a pencil – imports of English graphite having been interrupted by war.
The sergeant called to two passing soldiers and gestured to them to pull the bodies off the other cart and lay them outside the makeshift casualty station.
Once the French dead were lined up on their final parade he began identifying and listing them, all members of his company.
Watching him at work, the officer glanced at Hoover and said quietly: ‘So young. Seven more mothers will soon be weeping for their sons. Not exactly a glorious death, but they fell defending France nevertheless.’