Once again, Sparrow had gone about, her torn sails and battered hull acting like a pointer to the great ships-of-the-line which followed obediently in her wake.
Once in sight of the bay, and with the knowledge that the French were still there, Sparrow’s role had become that of a mere spectator to a battle which was to leave its mark on all who took part. A warning to young officers like Bolitho, a grim lesson to the hidebound who had for so long fought by the book, a book which had become outdated by hard experience.
Perhaps Admiral Graves had expected, even hoped up to the last moment that the French had quit the Chesapeake or at worst de Barras’s smaller squadron would be there, having slipped past his patrols and escaped from Newport some days earlier. Sparrow’s signal had put paid to any such belief, and the sight of such a grand array must have filled him with misgivings. But if his fleet was inferior to de Grasse’s in both ships and guns, he had much in his favour. The wind gave him the advantage, and as Tyrrell had so often predicted the treacherous middle-ground between the Chesapeake’s capes was soon to show its impartiality to those who braved it.
With the British bearing down on the bay, and de Barras’s reinforcements not yet in close company, de Grasse decided to weigh and meet them in open water. An adverse wind and tide, the dangerous spit of middle-ground, soon told him he was unable to leave his protective anchorage as a complete fleet. Squadron by squadron, his ships fought their way around Cape Henry, with Lucifer’s skeleton close by as a warning to the foolhardy or the careless.
This should have been Graves’s great opportunity. To signal General Chase and allow his captains to fall on the enemy before he could reassemble and proclaim his superiority. Had there been a Hawke or a Keppel in command there was little doubt in anyone’s mind that the effect would have been devastating.
But once again Graves faltered, his mind grasping the written word of the “Fighting Instructions” and seeing no other alternative.
His flagship hoisted the rigid signal to form line of battle, and it remained flying throughout the action. The delay allowed de Grasse to assemble his fleet and when the two adversaries finally drove together it was impossible for the rearmost British ships even to engage. By evening, failing light forced the fleets to disengage, and driven by a strong north-easterly both soon lost contact.
When at last Graves was able to re-form his squadrons, the French had beaten back into the Chesapeake. They did not leave it again, and after further hesitation Graves ordered his frustrated captains to sail for New York.
Helpless and beyond reach of the action itself, Bolitho had watched much of the tactics and guessed far more of what was happening. He left the deck at regular intervals to speak with Tyrrell in the sickbay, holding his hand as he tried to describe the sequence of events.
He could recall each visit exactly. Tyrrell’s face very pale in the laternlight, his mouth clenched against the agony. And around him, groaning or sobbing quietly, the others who had suffered, and some who were beyond pain.
Tyrrell had said hoarsely, “That’s th’ army finished!” He had gripped Bolitho’s hand with some of his old vigour. “But we did what we could!”
Later at Sandy Hook, as Sparrow had carried out repairs and Bolitho had received orders to sail for England with the admiral’s despatches and news of the battle, the blow had fallen.
Cut off from the sea, his ammunition and supplies exhausted, Cornwallis and his whole army had capitulated.
True to his reputation, General Washington had allowed the British to surrender with both honour and dignity, but it was a crushing defeat, nevertheless.
Couriers who had brought the news of the surrender told of the British military band which led their soldiers into General Washington’s camp. They had been playing “The World Turned Upside Down,” which gave some hint of what they thought about their situation if nothing else.
Under low cloud and a steady drizzle Sparrow weighed and turned her stern to Sandy Hook for the last time. Her company reacted to their sailing orders with mixed feelings. Some mourned old friends whom they had buried at sea or left crippled to await more comfortable transport. Others were almost afraid of what they might find in England after so long. And there were plenty who turned their backs on America and dreamed only of that moment when they would step ashore in their own country, thankful at being spared the pain and despair, grateful even to see the leaden sky above the mastheads.
When not required on deck Bolitho spent much of the voyage alone in his cabin. It made contact less painful, the losses of familiar faces easier to bear.
He could remember his last handshake with Tyrrell as he had said his farewells at a New York hospital. Dalkeith had been there, too, and it had been a sad parting. It was still hard to think of Tyrrell with one leg, nor did he want to. One thing seemed certain, Tyrrell was without despair.
“After this, I’m going home.” He had said it several times. “I don’t know how or when, but by th’ Lord I’ll get there!”
Dalkeith had been appointed to an accommodation ship off Sandy Hook, and had added quietly, “Reckon they’ll need a good doctor, too, eh, Jethro?” He had given his deep chuckle. “So here’s me hand on it!”
Bolitho shivered and pulled his coat more closely across his body. It was cold and very damp, and the bulkhead was dripping with condensation. He glanced at the open log book. It was the first day of January 1782, another year for all of them. He stood up and walked slowly from the cabin, his legs taking the pitch and plunge without conscious thought or effort. Over three and a half years since he had stepped into this ship which had become so much a part of him.
He climbed the ladder and saw Heyward at the weather nettings. It would be worse for him. He had been aboard since she had commissioned five years back. He walked across to him, seeing the grey mist swirling through the dripping shrouds, the spray bursting high above the gangway.
“Well, Mr. Heyward, the English Channel. Yonder, with any sort of luck, lies the Isle of Wight. We will anchor at Spithead before dark.”
Heyward looked at him steadily. “It’s a strange feeling, sir.” He shrugged. “I’m not sure if I want to leave the ship now.”
Bolitho nodded. “It is often the case. Sparrow is no different from the rest of us. She needs a proper overhaul in the yard, and she is to be fitted with these new carronades we keep hearing about. She’ll not be the same after this.” He saw Bethune climbing from the gun deck, his jaw working on a stale biscuit. “I doubt if any of us will.”
“Land ho! Fine on th’ starboard bow!”
Bolitho took a glass. “Wight. You’d better let her fall off a point.” He watched Heyward hurry to the rail with his speaking trumpet. It could have been Tyrrell.
Then he looked around the rain-soaked deck at the seamen by the mizzen braces, their faces and arms even darker in the hostile grey light.
A tan-sailed yawl bobbed past, a bearded man waving from the tiller. On the other beam he saw a smudge of land through the drizzle and mist. England. He gripped the rail hard. After so long and so much.
“Steady as she goes, sir!” Heyward joined him again.
Bethune stood on his opposite side and murmured, “I feel as if I’ve grown up in Sparrow.”
Bolitho thrust his arms around their shoulders.
“We all did.”
Then he turned away and said formally, “Muster your anchor party and tell the gunner to prepare a salute.”
He began to pace slowly up and down the weather side, seeing the busy seamen around him, and many more. Buckle and Tilby, Graves and the artist Majendie.
He paused and touched the rail, the scars where balls had cut down so many of his men.
A frigate loomed through the mist on an opposite tack, her flags very bright against the murky backcloth.
Fowler called, “What ship?, sir.”
Bolitho nodded. “Hoist our number.”
Sparrow, sloop-of-war, had come home.
Alexander Kent, Sloop of War
Sloop of War Page 35