by Chris Durbin
The boats were silent as they rowed to the beach. Only Holbrooke’s was rowed by men who were not from his own ship, but even they had become attached to Holbrooke over the past weeks and they well understood the gravity of the situation. Treganoc looked tense, the first sign of nerves that Holbrooke could remember in his marine lieutenant.
‘Can’t I come with you, sir,’ Treganoc asked in a whisper. ‘I’m not one for signs and omens, as you know, but I’ve a bad feeling about today. I’d be a lot easier if I was with you, guarding your back, as it were. Mister Edney can manage this boat.’
‘You know that’s not possible, Treganoc. You’re needed here.’
‘That’s right, sir,’ said the stroke oar, eavesdropping shamelessly and imposing on the freedom of the pre-dawn. ‘Ain’t nobody can steer this old hulk like you can.’
‘Look!’ said Treganoc, and he pointed to the northern part of the bay. The first grey light of the morning played on the high ground above the beach and showed a column of marching men, their forms indistinct in the dim light.
‘Friend or foe, I wonder,’ asked Holbrooke, but in his heart, he knew the answer.
‘The French for certain, sir,’ Treganoc replied. ‘They’ve come from the west, along the shore of the Fresnaye Bay, not from the south. That’s the advance guard of the Duke d’Aiguillon’s army come from Brest and they must have marched through the night. They’re moving towards Saint-Cast. They’ll be held for a while by General Drury’s guards, but only until their line regiments arrive, then our rearguard will have to withdraw and give up the town. It’ll squeeze General Bligh and our own main body.’
Holbrooke could see the problem for himself. If the French took Saint-Cast before the British main body had passed the town and was on the beach, they could threaten the long column and perhaps even cut off a part of it, leaving it with no way down to the waiting boats. The question now was which of the two armies would reach its objective first.
They rowed on in silence, the flatboat bucking and rolling to the waves that were slanting around the point, it’s head repeatedly pushed from its right course by the gale-force winds.
Holbrooke felt rather than saw Treganoc slip the kedge. In these conditions it would be essential in getting the heavy boats through the surf on their return journey.
The flatboat’s bows slammed onto the beach. This was a real test of the boatbuilders’ skill as the whole weight of the boat was dropped from three feet onto the hard, wet sand. There was no sound of splintering wood or clench nails being ripped out of timber, just a solid thump.
At least there was no need to run the boat far up the beach because only Holbrooke would be disembarking. He felt Treganoc shake his hand before he left, the first time he’d presumed on such intimacy in their eight months together. It was strangely touching and left Holbrooke with a sense of foreboding.
Edney looked nervous as well. Holbrooke was starting to regret bringing him, not because he doubted his capability or his steadiness, but because Treganoc’s fears were well-founded. This most certainly was a dangerous mission.
◆◆◆
This time the beach was secure, even if the heights to the north were in enemy hands. There’d be no French hussars to cause an alarm. Only a regular force of infantry could overwhelm General Drury’s rearguard positions. The earthworks were just visible now, the freshly turned soil showing dark against the sand and bleached grasses. The grenadiers and guards hadn’t wasted the night. The inland face of the earthworks was now a steep, high obstacle, and the seaward side had been improved with firing steps and enough depth to shield the defenders. It wouldn’t stand a regular attack but perhaps it would hold back the French until the main body of Bligh’s army had been embarked in the transports. However, it wouldn’t help the rearguard when their turn came to run for the boats. Holbrooke did a mental calculation, the same one that he’d worked on a dozen times before. There were sixteen hundred men under General Drury’s command and each of the boats could take fifty. The whole rearguard would need about forty boats to take them off the beach in one go. The squadron didn’t have that many, even if the flatboats were augmented with ships’ longboats and yawls. They would have to extract the rearguard in two waves. The last eight hundred or so men would have to hold a portion of the beach for thirty minutes while the boats ran back to the transports, unloaded their cargo and returned to the beach. It could be a long thirty minutes.
◆◆◆
‘You know your orders, gentlemen,’ said Captain Rowley as the five captains stood in the centre of the beach. ‘We’ll need to use the whole beach, even though the northern end will undoubtedly be under French artillery fire within the hour.’
He didn’t flinch at all even though that was the part of the beach that he’d allocated to himself.
‘At all costs the embarkation must be carried out in an orderly manner, and that’s our job. I’ve agreed with General Drury that we may override any orders from his officers in the interests of getting the army off the beach as swiftly as possible. Mister Elphinstone and Mister Holbrooke, the army doesn’t understand the subtlety of our ranks, so you will conduct yourselves as though you are both post-captains. I don’t intend to enlighten the soldiers.’
Holbrooke glanced at John Elphinstone. He was a master and commander like himself but considerably older, perhaps in his thirties. He’d languished through the peace as a half-pay lieutenant and it was only the coming of the present war that had brought him his promotion. He’d been in command for over a year and would certainly be more anxious about his future than even Holbrooke was. He looked keen and eager but couldn’t hide his tension.
‘My final thought, gentlemen, is this,’ he paused, but there was no need, he already had their attention. ‘It’s our duty, as I see it, to be the last men off this beach. No soldier should be able to say that he was left behind while one of us five rowed away to safety.’
The gale howled over their heads, the waves pounded on the beach and blown sand stung their faces. Without a word they each shook hands and moved away to their posts. Holbrooke had the southern end of the beach, furthest away from the advancing French as befit his status as the most junior of the company. He and Edney turned their backs to the wind and walked the half-mile south to their sector.
◆◆◆
It was growing lighter by the minute and now the grenadiers of the Thirty-Fourth could be easily recognised by their red uniforms with yellow facings and tall distinguishing hats. They were spaced along the hundred-and-fifty yards that made up their portion of the defensive earthworks. There was a grenadier for every three yards and a reserve fifty yards in the rear, still hurriedly constructing a semi-circular embankment of their own: a shelter against direct artillery fire until they were called to the part of the line where they were most needed. The grenadiers of the Sixty-Eighth occupied the other half of Holbrooke’s sector on the right of the Thirty-Fourth. It was comforting that Captain Overton commanded both companies in Holbrooke’s sector, it would make the control of the beach so much easier.
◆◆◆
‘There’s no sign of the army yet,’ said Overton. ‘They’d better be marching otherwise they’ll be cut off. You can hear the French skirmishers now; they must be on the outskirts of Saint-Cast already.’
Holbrooke looked at his watch. The time was flying by and it was already eight o’clock. His only contribution so far was to insist that Overton levelled his earthworks in two places to make a road for the main body of the army. He could just imagine the disastrous delay and confusion if the marching column with its ammunition carts and baggage should be faced with a five-foot wall of compacted earth and sand while the French artillery played upon them.
Now everything was ready. Behind him the four flatboats and a mixed bag of ships’ boats were straining at their bow anchors fifty yards off the beach. He could see Treganoc, at the far southern end, saying something to the quarter gunner in the bows and testing the training and elevation of the
swivel. The oarsmen looked relaxed even in this strong wind, lounging on their thwarts, their oars inside the boats.
‘Do you hear something, sir?’ asked Edney, cocking his ear to the south.
At first Holbrooke could detect nothing but the howling of the gale. Then he heard it faintly, the sound of drums beating the time for a march. Not a single drum, he realised, but a great number, all beating the same rhythm each at a slightly different time to the others, so that it was a constant hum of sound. That’s why he hadn’t heard it before, it sounded like another part of the harsh melody of the gale.
They stared hard at the top of the escarpment. The dragoons came first, riding with their swords drawn and looking warily in all directions. They would have heard that the rearguard held the town and the beach, and that the enemy was approaching from the west, but this was no time to let their guard slip. Two companies of horsemen split off and moved north along the escarpment, and two more moved south. The remainder held their positions, leaving a lane for the marching column.
Holbrooke and Edney hurried forward to meet the column before it reached the earthworks. Holbrooke glanced at his watch. Nine o’clock.
Very faintly now came the sound of fifes as well as drums. Between the groups of dragoons, a splash of reds and blues and whites and yellows burst into view; the colours of the leading line regiments of the First Brigade. Down they came, in a long line, losing some of their formation as they scrambled down the escarpment, but the barking of the sergeants soon brought them back to order as they marched onto the flat surface at the bottom of the hill.
General Bligh’s army had arrived, but so had the Duke d’Aiguillon’s and the scene was set for a bloody day’s work.
◆◆◆
24: A Fighting Withdrawal
Monday, Eleventh of September 1758.
Saint-Cast Bay.
A horseman at the head of the leading regiment cantered up to Holbrooke and stopped in a spray of sand. He was a staff officer by the look of his gear and by the way he appeared to have no function in directing the regiments behind him.
‘Major Vaughan, at your service,’ he said, ‘I second General Mostyn of the First Brigade…’
This was the moment for Holbrooke to assert himself. He cut off the major before he’d finished explaining himself.
‘Captain Holbrooke of the navy,’ he said just in case there was any chance of the major confusing the land service rank of captain with that of the sea service. ‘Take your brigade to the north end of the beach,’ he said, waving his arm to the right. ‘Captain Rowley will give you your orders for embarkation.’
Without waiting for a response, Holbrooke turned to Edney.
‘Run to Captain Rowley, Mister Edney, and tell him the First Brigade is on its way. Be sure to name Major Vaughan. Hurry, you must be there before the column.’
It was half a mile to where Rowley was waiting, and Edney set off at a steady jogging run, muttering to himself in time to the beat of his feet on the sand; ‘First Brigade, Major Vaughan. First Brigade, Major Vaughan. First Brigade…’
For a moment it looked as though Vaughan may demur, may have his own orders, or his own ideas of where his brigade should embark. Perhaps he was less than entirely happy to be marching his men towards the sound of the field artillery. However, with his commanding general far to the rear of the brigade, and with the urgency of the situation plain in the imperious way that this naval captain directed him, he doffed his hat and marched on with the colours of his leading battalion, from the Fifth Regiment of Foot, following close behind.
Holbrooke breathed a sigh of relief. Although he was furthest from danger at this southern end of the beach, he was the first contact that the main body of the army would have with the navy. It would be all too easy to allow disagreement and confusion as to who commanded. It may be different when the first of the army’s generals came down the slope, but he would face that problem when it arrived. He looked over his shoulder for the reassurance of General Drury, but he was far up the beach, confronting the French artillery.
◆◆◆
Battalion after battalion came down the slope of the escarpment. The soldiers marched quickly, never looking back, and the baggage trains rattled along behind them. Seeing the carts, Holbrooke realised that they posed a danger to the embarkation. If just two of them lost their wheels as they followed the infantry through the gap in the earthworks, they would hold up the whole operation.
‘Captain Overton!’ Holbrooke called. ‘If you have an officer you can spare, send him forward to divert all the carts to the left-hand path. They can catch up with their battalions on the beach.’
‘Yes sir,’ Overton replied. He appeared glad to be having positive orders. So far, his men had not been engaged and they and he were growing nervous again. They could see all their fellow soldiers heading towards the boats and safety while they had to hold their positions for an uncertain length of time.
Now the frigates and sloops and the bomb vessels started their bombardment to cover the withdrawal. The bombs were concentrated at the north, anchored close in for the greatest accuracy, while the frigates and sloops sailed slowly to their own anchorages spread across the beach. Holbrooke spared a glance for Kestrel. He was pleased to see his sloop move into position opposite his own sector of the beach. No fuss, and as soon as the anchor touched the sandy bottom, the spring was passed aft, and the sloop was hauled around so that her broadside was pointed at the centre of the beach. It was a matter of minutes before the first guns – fired by divisions – threw their shot at the French infantry column that was advancing south along the top of the escarpment. It was perfectly executed. No doubt Fairview was conning the ship while Lynton commanded the guns, a perfect sharing of responsibility for the best performance.
In only twenty minutes the battalions had filled up the north and centre of the beach and it was the turn of the boats in Holbrooke’s sector. By now the soldiers had been into and out of the flatboats many times, and their embarkation drill was slick. With the twin gang-boards extended, and the soldiers moving forward to the beat of a drum, they marched up and into the boats, going straight along the centre in two columns and filling up the seats from the stern. Holbrooke used the other ship’s boats for the supplies and the horses. There were wounded too, more and more as the embarkation continued. The peasantry was rising against the invaders, the militia was snapping at their heels and the French field army was threatening their flanks. It was hard luck on any soldier who fell out of the column before it reached the beach.
◆◆◆
‘How many more do you think, Mister Overton?’ asked Holbrooke.
‘That must be two-thirds of the main body now, sir.’
Holbrooke looked at his watch; eleven o’clock.
‘You see the French are skirmishing past the town now. The guards will have to withdraw soon if they’re not to be cut off.’
‘Is General Drury with them?’
‘As far as I know, yes. He’ll try to hold on until the last of our men are past the town and fall in behind them. That could be any time now.’
Those were Kestrel’s balls falling among the French skirmishers, but they had little effect, and still the white-clad figures crept ever forward.
◆◆◆
Crack! Holbrooke heard the unmistakable sound of field artillery, probably a six-pounder. He glanced to his right but couldn’t see where the ball landed.
Crack! The second shot, then two more.
‘Up there, sir,’ said Edney, urgently pointing to the arm of land that jutted out on their left side, ‘field guns!’
A battery of horse artillery had galloped up from the left. Now the tail end of the British army was hemmed in from the left and the right and from behind. It was impossible to see the size of the force behind the field artillery, if there was a force at all. It could be an isolated battery of the militia, but whoever they were, they were placing their guns in the worst possible position. Point de la Garde th
at spit of land was called, and a battery of guns on that peninsula could command the whole of the southern end of the beach.
‘Look over there,’ said Overton. He’d seen the battery too. ‘They can’t be part of the Duke d’Aiguillon’s army because they would have had to cross our line of march, it must be a militia unit.’
‘Orders sir,’ said a subaltern, removing his hat and offering the slip of paper to Overton.
He read it once, then again. He looked up at Point de la Garde and nodded his head sagely.
‘I’m to dislodge those guns, sir,’ he said to Holbrooke. ‘You won’t have the pleasure of my company for a while.’
◆◆◆
Without another word Overton turned to his sergeant-major and issued brief orders. A company of grenadiers, half his force, formed in a skirmish line and started moving up the rocky incline towards the guns. Holbrooke watched them with his heart in his mouth. They were in dead ground, below the crest of the escarpment, and the guns couldn’t see them, but when they showed above the rim, they’d be at point-blank range for grape and canister. It was frustrating. Holbrooke could see what was needed but had no way of achieving it. If Kestrel were to shift her target onto this battery, the artillerymen could be distracted long enough for the grenadiers to reach the top and charge in amongst them.
Holbrooke looked at the sloop. There was no sign that Lynton had seen the new situation and it was too far for him to signal. No amount of arm-waving would be correctly interpreted at that distance.
Then he saw a flatboat veer off its course. For one moment he thought it had been hit, but then he realised that it was a deliberate move to get close to Kestrel. It was Treganoc’s boat. It spent no more than a few seconds under the sloop’s stern, but he could see Treganoc motioning towards the point and the French field artillery. The flatboat pulled fast away for the shore and as it did, Kestrel started to turn. The bars of the windlass could be seen pulling through a vertical arc as the spring was hauled in and the larboard battery turned to face Point de la Garde. A pause, then the whole larboard battery fired together. At least one shot reached the French artillery and the shaft of a limber pointed disconsolately towards the sky. It was good but not good enough. That artillery commander wasn’t going to be distracted, not when he knew his position was about to come under attack from grenadiers. Holbrooke could see the guns pointing at the rim, waiting.