Perilous Shore

by Chris Durbin

  ‘Very well, you were right to show it to me.’

  Holbrooke raised his telescope and trained it over the larboard bow towards the Round Tower. At first only the massive grey structure could be seen, with a few indistinct figures atop. In peacetime, when King’s ships didn’t so frequently leave the harbour, the Round Tower would be packed with people getting the closest view possible of a man-of-war under sail. But the people of Portsmouth had become jaded by the spectacle, and today only this small group was visible.

  The sloop passed Portsmouth Point, and now the details were becoming clearer. It was a group of three. Holbrooke lowered the telescope and carefully wiped the eyepiece and objective lens with his handkerchief. When he looked again his suspicion was confirmed. There was Ann, flanked on one side by Mrs Featherstone and on the other by his father.

  ‘Give a cheer, lads,’ shouted Jackson who’d recognised the group as quickly as Holbrooke, even without a telescope.

  Kestrel sped through the gap, wind and tide urging her on, to the loud huzzahs of her people. Holbrooke waved and waved and watched the group until the turn in the channel past Spithead became a matter of urgency.

  ◆◆◆

  Saint Catherine’s was behind them and the sloop was running sou’-sou’west into a glorious evening – sky-blue-pink his mother used to call those colours – as the sun made its stately way towards the horizon on the starboard bow.

  ‘There’s nothing important in the official mail, sir,’ said Pritchard, laying a small bundle of documents on the table. ‘I’ve warned Mister Matross that there’s a letter from the gun wharf about the honeycombing on number eight gun and that he’ll see it after you’ve read it.’

  Holbrooke glanced at the letter; it didn’t require his attention and he passed it back to the clerk without a word.

  ‘There’s a personal letter, sir,’ he added, handing over a neat paper package.

  ‘Thank you, Mister Pritchard, just give that letter to the gunner and I’ll read the rest later.’

  The personal letter was from Lady Chiara. He could easily recognise her hand, so much more cursive than the style taught to ladies in England. It was neatly if incorrectly addressed:

  Captain Holbrooke of the Navy Royal, His Britannic Majesty’s Ship Kestrel, at Portsmouth, England.

  He cut through the seal and the ribbons beneath and unfolded the five sheets of clean, white paper. Trust Lady Chiara to use only the best materials. She’d written on one side only, and her writing was far from small. Thus delivered, five sheets conveyed less information than perhaps two sheets from the Admiralty or the navy board. However, her prose was so concise that he knew there would be enough information to hold his attention for some time.

  ‘Serviteur, a sherry would go down well now,’ he called into the scullery.

  My dear George, the letter started.

  It was the first letter that he’d received from either Chiara or her husband since Carlisle’s ship had called at Hampton – a short ride from Williamsburg – on the way to Louisbourg. He was aware that there’d been some uneasiness about introducing Chiara to her husband’s family, but the frankness of Chiara’s description of the events left him gasping in astonishment. The sheer hostility of Carlisle’s elder brother and father, the way that the antagonism had lasted through the visit, the reconciliation between Chiara and her father-in-law – but not his brother – after Carlisle had left. They were all stories that were best kept close within a family. He was surprised that Chiara was so freely confessing the sordid details to him, her husband’s sometime first lieutenant.

  He was pleased to read that Carlisle’s cousin and her husband had made up for his brother’s unpleasantness by opening their home for Chiara. As she pointed out, her baby was due in only three months – two now after the letter had taken a month to reach him – and she needed a comfortable and secure home.

  She’d heard nothing from Carlisle since he’d left but that wasn’t surprising given the state of the land communications in the American colonies. Holbrooke had heard that the expedition against Louisbourg was well underway and the fortress may already have fallen. He hoped that Carlisle had found a way to return to Williamsburg before the birth, but he knew that it was unlikely.

  Chiara ended with her best wishes and her hope that she’d soon see Holbrooke’s name in The Gazette. She made a point of asking at the governor’s palace to see the latest copies whenever she took a walk in the town.

  It was a good letter that nicely complemented his unexpected send-off from the Round Tower. He wondered how Chiara and Ann would agree; very well he thought.

  ◆◆◆

  17: Cherbourg

  Thursday, Thirteenth of July 1758.

  Kestrel, at Sea. Off Cherbourg.

  The night had been warm, and Kestrel ran fast across the channel, stuns’ls set, driven by the same nor’easterly that had sped them out of Portsmouth Harbour just the previous afternoon. The sloop had been cleared for action all night, but the people were in their regular watches with the lucky watch below already snoring in time with their swinging hammocks.

  ‘I make it sunrise at twenty-one minutes past four,’ Fairview declared, checking his watch as the vast orange orb heaved its nether regions clear of the cloudless horizon. He stooped low over the binnacle. Protecting his eye with a piece of smoked glass, he squinted through the nearer slit on the wooden stile attached to the compass. Then, with infinite care, he turned the inner box until the cat-gut thread that was stretched vertically through the slit in the furthest stile bisected the sun.

  ‘Now, Mister Turner.’

  ‘Nor’east half east… no, three-quarters east,’ announced the midshipman, looking squarely down at the compass card from above.

  Fairview straightened and held his hat formally across his chest. ‘The binnacle compass is correct, sir, allowing for variation,’ he said with a look of satisfaction.

  ‘Thank you, Mister Fairview,’ said Holbrooke whose gaze and attention was directed south, towards Cherbourg.

  ‘You may unship the stile and return the compass to its drawer, Mister Turner,’ Fairview continued, not in the least perturbed that his captain had hardly registered a word he’d said.

  Whenever the horizon was clear Fairview made a point of checking the accuracy of the compass against the known bearing of the rising and setting sun. Of course, it was possible to verify the accuracy during the day, but it involved complex calculations. And then there was the practical difficulty of taking an accurate bearing of the elevated sun using the shadow of the horizontal cat-gut line stretched between the two stiles. A bearing at sunrise or sunset was altogether more desirable and more reliable. Nevertheless, most masters of anything less than a flagship would seldom bother to be on deck so early or so late without good reason. It was one more facet of Fairview that made him such a boon as a sailing master.

  ‘That’ll be Pelée Island, Mister Fairview?’

  ‘Aye, that’s it,’ Fairview replied. ‘There’s a fort on the west side and a battery on the north.’

  ‘I can’t quite see the causeways.’

  ‘The one to the south is hidden behind the island. It almost makes a complete pathway to the mainland, but there’s a small channel for boats right up against the Tourlaville shore. If you look to the right of the island, you’ll see the other causeway; it’s more of a breakwater really. That leaves a nine-cable channel into the anchorage.’

  Holbrooke could just make out the breakwater now with its stone pillar at the western end. It was a strange arrangement that left the anchorage exposed to winds from the north and west. An uncomfortable anchorage, Holbrooke decided.

  ‘What’s the depth, Master?’

  ‘Oh, there’s plenty of water until we’re five cables off the island, sir, but I’ll have the lead heaved anyway.’

  ‘Then let’s stay two miles clear and set a course to the west. We should be able to see all we need to see in this clear air. Get the stuns’ls in, if you please.
’

  It was rather like Saint-Malo all over again, he thought. The fortified island lying to seaward guarding the approaches to a French port. The difference here was that Cherbourg wasn’t anything like as important to the French as Saint-Malo. It had been strongly fortified in the previous century, but the castle had been demolished seventy years ago. There were only a few privateers based at Cherbourg, and no King’s ships refitted there.

  There had been great plans to improve the defences, both landward and seaward, but they hadn’t yet been put into practice. Now only Pelée Island defended the seaward approach and a small fort guarded the land approach from the west. The little Divette river and its marshy banks covered the east flank of the town and hosted its rudimentary port facilities.

  Nevertheless, Cherbourg’s anchorage was large, and it was well sheltered from the south and east. Holbrooke’s mission was to probe and to determine whether the batteries on Pelée Island had been occupied since Howe’s postponed attempt at the end of June – while Kestrel had been in dock – and whether any naval force had moved into the vicinity.

  The quartermaster put the helm down and came four points to starboard. Now they were coasting west-nor’west along the shallow indentation at the northern end of the Cotentin Peninsula, with Cape La Hague ahead of them.

  Holbrooke leaned his telescope on the hammock crane and focussed carefully on the island. It was tiny, no more than a cable across, and it was barren. There were no trees, just a bleak expanse of rock and the low walls of a small fort and an even smaller battery. Every inch of the island was open to his inspection. He could see the black muzzles of the guns at the battery – it looked like about ten of them, all pointing north – and the profile of the nearest gun in the fort was just visible with twelve embrasures reaching away to the west. That was all he needed to know. There was no need to draw their fire, particularly as he could see soldiers moving about in some agitation at the prospect of engaging this English intruder.

  ‘Keep well out of range, Mister Fairview. I have no desire to put the sloop into dock again.’

  The defenders of Cherbourg had been busy since their last alarm. Defensive works were being hastily thrown up all along the shore to the west of the town, extending some five or six miles to the headland beyond Querqueville. It must have been evident to the military commander that a landing to attack Cherbourg had only been postponed by the bad weather two weeks before.

  ‘Do you know anything of these shores, Mister Fairview?’ Holbrooke asked.

  ‘Foul ground, the whole coast from Barfleur to Cape La Hague, sir,’ he replied. ‘Every beach is encumbered with rocks. Oh, they look safe enough on the chart, but when you get close you can see that there’s precious little chance of putting twenty or thirty flatboats in together.’

  Holbrooke nodded mutely and continued his study of the shore as it slipped by to larboard. The Bay of Cherbourg looked attractive enough, but with close observation he could see the patches of white where the waves broke on the rocks. There was a fort being hastily repaired on the point at Equeurdreville and a line of entrenchments overlooking the shore. At Querqueville there was another fort – more of a battery really – but if it mounted twenty-four pounders then the area between Equeurdreville and Querqueville was covered. The bay beyond Querqueville started to open beyond the point.

  ‘Mister Fairview. I’d like to see that bay a little better. It appears that the guns haven’t yet been mounted at Querqueville, so you may move in as close as you see fit.’

  At the master’s word, Kestrel’s bows paid off from the nor’easterly wind.

  ‘No bottom on this line,’ called the leadsman.

  That was a twenty-fathom line, Holbrooke thought, and they were two miles offshore. He’d expect the water to shoal quite fast.

  ‘I think we’ll stand in under tops’ls, Mister Fairview.’

  Jackson had been ready for this sail reduction and in only a few minutes the courses were furled. Now the sloop had only the three tops’ls, the mizzen and the jib.

  ‘Stream the log, Mister Turner,’ Fairview ordered.

  The battery at Querqueville was a hair off the larboard bow and the Bay of Saint-Marais was right ahead.

  ‘Will you be going ashore tonight?’ Fairview asked winking at Turner and the quartermaster.

  ‘I think not, Mister Fairview. This coast is looking far too alert. I doubt whether a stroll along the shore would be conducive to my health.’

  He paused for a moment while Fairview contemplated how some jokes fall on stony ground.

  ‘I thought you might enjoy a stroll instead of me,’ Holbrooke continued in a flat voice, still looking through the telescope. ‘You can take Smithson with you,’ he added, ‘and Mister Turner.’

  He turned in time to see Fairview and the quartermaster’s horrified faces quickly replaced by guilty grins.

  ‘Four knots and a quarter,’ said Turner who had just returned from the taffrail, wondering whether he was in trouble and, if so, how it had happened without him opening his mouth.

  ‘By the deep, eighteen.’

  ‘I’d like to haul our wind at twelve fathoms,’ said Fairview sheepishly. It had been his first attempted humour at his captain’s expense and it had rebounded on him. He resolved never to try again.

  ‘If you please, Mister Fairview.’

  ‘Mark fifteen.’

  It was shoaling rapidly now.

  ‘Helm a’weather, quartermaster,’ ordered Fairview.

  Kestrel’s bows moved to starboard.

  ‘Start those sheets there,’ called Jackson.

  Now Holbrooke had a clear view of the bay. It was a mile wide and the sandy beach between the rocky outcrops that enclosed the bay rose gently towards fields and patches of woodland. At the eastern end there was a small village. All along the shoreline he could see the bare earth where entrenchments were being dug.

  ‘What do you make of it, Mister Lynton?’ Holbrooke asked.

  Lynton had been gazing equally earnestly at the shore. Rock-bound though it was it appeared more promising than Cherbourg Bay.

  ‘There’s a space of perhaps half a mile between the rocks,’ he said, ‘but I believe I can see a patch of white almost in the centre, sir.’

  Holbrooke turned his telescope to where Lynton was pointing. Yes, there was a hint of white where the waves were breaking, presumably on a patch of rock.

  ‘Mister Fairview, mark off the extent of that beach, if you please, and lay down the position of those rocks.’

  That would give the master something to do other than make poor jokes. It could also be useful if Howe decided to land the army at Saint-Marais Bay.

  Fairview busied himself with the compass and a notebook.

  ‘Deep twelve,’ called the leadsman.

  ‘Haul your wind a point, Quartermaster,’ said Fairview.

  Holbrooke looked up. They had almost reached across the little bay and that twelve-fathom sounding would be the underwater extension of the point at the western end of the bay. There was a battery being established there also, but like its fellows, its guns hadn’t yet been mounted. He looked across the deck, the gun crews were all at their quarters, lounging in the warmth of the early morning sun. Their breakfast would be late today. So far, they looked happy enough, but Holbrooke knew how quickly they would come to resent being sent to quarters for no apparent reason.

  ‘Mister Lynton, what’s the range to that battery, do you think?’

  He could see the unfinished wall of gabions and the empty spaces between them temporarily filled with fascines. At the eastern end, there was a party of soldiers digging furiously. It looked like they were filling more gabions to provide a solid wall of packed earth at that end.

  ‘Half a mile, barely,’ the first lieutenant replied.

  There was a stirring of interest all along the eight guns of the larboard battery. Quarter gunners and gun captains started rousing their crews and blowing on the slow match.

  ‘Nearer
three-quarters,’ said Fairview with a snort.

  ‘Then you may stir them up a little, Mister Lynton. Fire by divisions until you have your elevation, then broadsides as long as we’re in range.’

  Lynton rubbed his hands.

  ‘Aye-aye sir!’ he replied with a broad smile.

  ‘Steer small quartermaster,’ Holbrooke ordered, to give the guns the best chance.

  Bang, bang! The first two guns fired together.

  ‘Short!’ exclaimed Lynton as twin white plumes appeared off the point.

  ‘Nearer three-quarters, as I said,’ Fairview commented, not entirely under his breath.

  The wind blew the gunsmoke away most conveniently over the larboard bow. Numbers six and eight guns were already easing the quoins back to give their guns more elevation.

  Holbrooke watched the working party through his telescope. They were close enough to distinguish the officers in their white coats from the soldiers who had stripped to their shirt sleeves for the hard manual work. They seemed to find Kestrel’s first attempt amusing.

  Bang… bang! The second two guns fired with a greater interval between them. This time it was more difficult to see the fall of shot, there was no plume of white water but two puffs of dust where the balls hit the rocks below the battery.

  Bang, bang! Numbers ten and twelve guns made Holbrooke start, they were so close, and he was so intent on watching the reactions of the soldiers at the battery. One of the officers was waving madly. He’d seen that the ranging salvoes were creeping ever closer and he was trying to get his men behind the gabions.

  As Holbrooke watched, he saw the two balls fall right among the working party. Two men fell and lay still, the others retreated to the safety of the gabions. Those huge wicker baskets filled with hard-packed earth would keep out Kestrel’s six-pound balls. The gun crews cheered and the numbers fourteen and sixteen guns fired, their balls kicking up the turned earth in front of the gabions.