by Chris Durbin
***
7: Dawn Action
Tuesday, Fourteenth of March 1758.
Medina, at Sea. Cape Henry Southwest 65 leagues.
It was still pitch-dark when Carlisle groped his way up the quarterdeck, but now there was a definite glow to the east. It wasn’t enough to offer any illumination, but it was noticeable.
‘Good morning sir.’
That was Moxon; Carlisle could just see his outline against the light of the binnacle. And now he could see shadowy figures around the first lieutenant: steersmen, the crews of the four three-pounders, the master, assorted midshipmen. Gradually the day became lighter as the still-invisible sun neared the horizon. To the east, it was just possible to imagine a distinction between sea and sky while to the west, a sullen mist lay over the face of the sea. He was reminded of Genesis:
And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep.
The mist would evaporate with the sun but, for now, it had the odd effect of delaying the light of the rising sun to the west, while to the east, the day moved forward apace.
‘Sail Ho! Four points on the larboard bow. Looks like the convoy, sir.’
Carlisle trained his telescope to larboard. He could see nothing but an indistinct horizon, but that was to be expected. The lookout’s horizon was probably five miles further than was available to the officers on the quarterdeck.
‘I can see Shark now, sir. She’s ahead of the convoy and to leeward.’
That was right and proper. In the absence of Medina, the sloop should be stationed at the head of the convoy on the side closest to the threat.
Four telescopes were trained to windward, all looking for the first sight of their charges. Naturally Hosking wanted an early indication so that he could adjust his course to take the convoy commander’s station, presently occupied by Shark. A delay of five minutes now could turn into an additional thirty minutes if the convoy was further on their bow than the lookout reported.
Carlisle, too, was watching to windward. The part of his mind that wasn’t trying to be the first to see the topmasts pierce the horizon was dimly aware that Moxon alone wasn’t staring through a telescope. In fact, the first lieutenant was at the leeward side of the quarterdeck, his hands on the hammock cranes, looking to the east. Carlisle was irritated to see that Moxon should take so little interest in this delicate manoeuvre that the frigate had to execute. He should know by now how important it was that the convoy commander’s ship should be the example to all. Otherwise, the merchantmen had all the excuse they needed to wander all over the sea rather than stay in a tight formation.
‘I do believe I see them, sir,’ said Hosking, ‘four, no five points on the bow, just as we rise on the swell.’ Probably the master was bluffing, Carlisle thought. He’d calculated that they’d be visible from the quarterdeck at any moment and had taken a risk on their bearing.
Silence. Nobody else was prepared to commit themselves, and as the minutes passed, Hosking was starting to regret his little conceit. Wishart, the master’s mate of the watch, nudged the midshipman who hurried away to turn the glass and stream the log. Four bells sounded and the relief lookouts swung out around the shrouds and made their way up the ratlines. The people were at quarters, and the frigate was cleared for action, as she would be every dawn that she was at sea while this war lasted.
***
‘Sir,’ said Moxon from somewhere behind Carlisle. ‘Sir, there may be a ship to starboard, I’ve just lost her again in the mist.’
Carlisle swung around. The telescope was useless in that reduced visibility, the naked eye was far better at catching shifting shapes in the murk. He studied the grey-white bank for a full minute, but there was no sign of a solid mass within that barrier of moist air.
‘Are you sure, Mister Moxon?’ asked Carlisle. He was desperate to keep the scepticism from his voice; his first lieutenant needed all the endorsement that he could get from his commanding officer. Yet, there was nothing to be seen. Nobody else had raised the alarm, but that was easily explained because all hands were imitating the quarterdeck and looking earnestly to larboard for the first sighting of the convoy from the deck.
What was the visibility? About a mile, somewhat less in the thicker patches, Carlisle thought. If Moxon had seen something, then it was dangerously close. He gave it another full minute, searching the denser, closer patches of mist, but then he heard Wishart over his left shoulder.
‘There they are, just where the master said. Four points on the bow.’
Carlisle turned back to larboard. As he did so, he noticed Moxon still gazing to starboard, intently watching a point right on their beam. He soon forgot the first lieutenant’s imaginary sighting; the sooner he could be unloaded on a ship-of-the-line where he could do less damage, the better. And the convoy was indeed in sight, a forest of tiny topmasts breaking the horizon.
‘You’ll need to come a point or so to starboard, Mister Hosking, I fancy,’ he said.
‘Sail Ho!’ Moxon shouted. There was no doubt in his voice this time. ‘Sail a point for’rard of the starboard beam.’
This time Carlisle swung about quickly, and the whole population of the quarterdeck followed him. They were quick, but not fast enough to see the flash of a full broadside that the frigate on their beam unleashed on them. All they saw was the bank of smoke that the moderate breeze pushed back over the deck and sails of the intruder, and they heard the howling of the chain shot as it tore the sails and rigging over their heads. Medina staggered; evidently, they’d been hulled, and even chain shot could damage a frigate’s light sides.
‘Mister Moxon, the starboard battery if you please. Fire as soon as the guns are properly pointed. I’ll bear away towards that fellow.’
‘Aye-aye sir. Gun captains! Run out and stand by to give her a broadside!’
‘Mister Hosking. Three points to starboard. Brail up the courses, let’s see the enemy!’
Carlisle looked around him. The quarterdeck was full of people and he quickly spotted those he needed.
‘Bosun. Chips. I want a damage report as quickly as possible.’
He had a moment to again regret the missing Holbrooke. At a time like this, he needed trusted men around him.
Medina staggered as her first broadside fired. It was a little ragged, but it appeared that all the guns had fired almost simultaneously. He couldn’t see the aftermost guns in his cabin, but it looked like a good opening salvo. He spared a moment for a searching look at his first lieutenant. He wasn’t sure what he expected, a furious panicked running from gun to gun perhaps, but he was surprised to see Moxon standing alone in the centre of the upper deck. He was looking calmly around him and issuing rapid orders to the midshipmen and quarter gunners. Moxon looked towards the quarterdeck.
‘Number twenty-one gun’s out of action, sir. One of the chain shot came straight through the gunport and destroyed the carriage. Carpenter’s looking at it now.’
Then his cabin would be a wreck, thought Carlisle. That was where his cot swung when Medina wasn’t cleared for action; and of course, that was where Chiara would have been if she hadn’t stayed in Williamsburg.
There would be casualties, but now wasn’t the time for him to be concerned with mere flesh and blood; it was the guns, inanimate confections of oak and cast iron that mattered. Carlton had offered to stay behind in Williamsburg to tend to Chiara but thank God he’d resisted the temptation. Apart from the obvious and rightful disapproval of whichever admiral he came under at Halifax, it would have been a criminal loss to those men who were now helpless in the midshipman’s berth awaiting the knife and the saw.
Carlisle tried to distance himself from his guns and the ship’s damage. His job was to out-think his opponent. What was the Frenchman doing? He could see that it was the same frigate that they’d pursued the previous evening. Why had her commander decided to attack now? Was he hoping that Medina would have chased him through the night, drawing further and further away fro
m the convoy, leaving it undefended for this dawn attack? One thing was certain, his guess that his enemy was armed en flute was dead wrong. For reasons of his own, the Frenchman had attempted to give that impression, and he’d fallen for it. Evidently, this was a war-wise adversary and not one to be trifled with
‘Mister Hosking. Put me across his bow at pistol-shot range.’
Another broadside of chain shot screamed across the deck. The range was less now, and the French gunners had been out of the mist for ten minutes. They had the range and the shot went high into the tops, shooting away halyards, sheets and braces and tearing rents in the canvas sails. Luckily the slings had not been hit, not yet.
‘Nothing below the waterline, sir,’ reported the carpenter, loaded down with softwood wedges and great iron nails. ‘My mates are re-mounting number twenty-one gun; it shouldn’t take long. Just knocks and dents, nothing to worry about.’
The Frenchman’s tactics were clear. He was trying to disable Medina to leave himself free to run riot among the convoy. Where was Shark?
Carlisle stole a quick look to windward. There was the sloop charging down into battle. It was hard to criticise such aggressive tactics, but Carlisle would have preferred Shark to stay with the convoy. She may not be able to stop a frigate, but she could buy time for the convoy to disperse, and that was better done after the Frenchman had dissipated his force on Medina.
The starboard battery fired again. The Frenchman was being hit now, hulled, and some of them were between wind and water. Now Medina was benefitting from the decision to engage with roundshot. If the Frenchman had made some significant hits in Medina’s sails in his first few broadsides of chain, then his decision would have been vindicated. He could have disabled Medina and bought himself a crucial hour. Now, though, with the British frigate only superficially damaged and closing fast to decide the contest, it was clear that the Frenchman’s gamble hadn’t paid off. It must be a worrying sight, a decidedly battle-ready frigate and one of those six-pounder brig-sloops bearing down upon them and no friends in sight.
The mist had almost dispersed now, and the eastern horizon was clear from north to south.
‘Masthead, do you see anything other than the convoy and the French Frigate?’ shouted Carlisle through the speaking-trumpet.
There was a long pause, and Carlisle almost picked up the trumpet again. Perhaps Whittle was wounded or dead, he’d be right in the path of that devilish chain shot. Then he heard the call. Evidently, Whittle had taken the time for a careful all-around scan.
‘Nothing, sir. The horizon’s clear. There’s nothing to windward of the convoy.’
An intelligent response saving Carlisle making a supplementary call.
Surely…surely the Frenchman would break off the engagement before Medina set her claws into him. With a frigate pinning her into position and a sloop manoeuvering to rake her stern – for that was surely what Anderson intended – there was no other sensible course of action. Every second the French captain delayed would make his retreat more perilous.
Crash went another broadside and almost at the same moment, another salvo of chain shot brought its hail of parted lines and unmounted blocks raining onto the deck. But still nothing vital had been hit.
‘There she goes, sir,’ said Hosking. ‘She’s coming through the wind. Very sensible, she’d never veer in time.’
‘Then we’ll rake her stern. Mister Moxon. Hold your fire until we see her taffrail. I want a full broadside of roundshot to see her off.’
‘Aye-aye sir.’ Moxon waved his hat and turned back to his guns. Carlisle noted that he’d barely moved throughout the engagement. He just had time to wonder whether he’d underestimated his second-in-command. The guns were being served with single-minded concentration by the crews. That was, to a great extent, a result of the example of their leader.
The Frenchman’s movements were evident now. Those beautiful bluff bows were moving fast into the wind. Her stern galleries were presented to Medina within range of her nine pounders. Nevertheless, it was a difficult target, at least half a mile distant and the target’s aspect was altering fast while Medina was tearing through the water at only a knot or two less than she would with undamaged sails. There was the rub. If the Frenchman could survive this broadside, she’d have two knots over Medina, thanks to the damage done by her chain shot.
‘Fire when you’re ready Mister Moxon.’
There was a breathless pause. Hands shot up all along the line of guns as their captains were happy with their training and elevation. He could see the handspikes being nudged to track the crossing target. There was a wicked symmetry to it, the impersonal air of a deadly fighting machine.
‘Fire!’ shouted Moxon. The handspikes were whipped away, and the gun captains stepped aside. As soon as they were clear of the recoil, thirteen linstocks were brought down onto the pans of priming. Medina shuddered as the broadside was released, eleven nine-pound balls from the upper deck and two three-pounders from the quarterdeck. Carlisle had a flash of recollection: Vulcain off Nice two years ago. He’d won that engagement before it had properly begun, with a broadside just such as this, and his opponent was only saved by being in the territorial waters of a neutral nation. This broadside had a similar effect. The stern windows just disappeared, one moment they were there, twinkling in the sun, and the next they were gone. The taffrail was shattered and the mizzen shrouds were cut through in the lanyards. Now, if only the rudder were hit, they’d have her.
‘Mister Hosking bring us about. You see the chase, let’s catch her!’
They watched eagerly from the quarterdeck, looking for some sign that their adversary was steering wildly, but they looked in vain. Not a shot came from the fleeing Frenchman, but nor did her speed slacken and she was running to leeward as fast as the wind would carry her. Carlisle couldn’t blame the French captain. He’d made a bold attempt at the convoy; he’d rolled the dice, but his sixes hadn’t come up. Now he was doing the sensible thing and preserving his frigate to complete its real mission. This was opportunism after all, nothing more than private enterprise.
Carlisle looked up at the sails; they were a pitiful sight with hardly an undamaged bolt of canvas. Could he ask Shark to run the Frenchman alongside and hold her until Medina could limp up and finish her off? He looked again at the frigate and at the sloop. Shark was no flyer. Perhaps Anderson could catch her, but by then Medina would be so far behind that the most likely outcome would be to lose the sloop before Medina could come into action. No, he’d follow for an hour in the hope that some calamity would befall the Frenchman, but then they must disengage and let him be.
***
8: New England
Wednesday, Fifteenth of March 1758.
Medina, at Anchor. Boston, Massachusetts.
Hosking exhaled in a low whistle.
‘I’ve been in and out of Boston these last thirty years and I’ve never seen the like of this,’ he exclaimed, staring at the mass of shipping in the harbour. Wherever there was space on the wharves, there was a ship: loading, unloading or repairing; double, treble and quadruple-banked. Those that couldn’t get alongside were anchored, seemingly scattered at random around the broad, island-studded bay.
‘They’ll be waiting for the last of the ice to clear before they sail for Halifax,’ replied Carlisle, himself in awe of the sheer number and variety of vessels. Whatever errors of strategy had caused the failure of last year’s attempt on Louisbourg, this year’s expedition wouldn’t want for naval effort.
‘That cutter’s heading for us,’ said Hosking, his telescope trained on a small gaff-rigged vessel that had just become visible between Governor’s Island and Castle Island, ‘It’ll be our pilot, I don’t doubt.’
As the cutter took a wide sweep to approach Medina’s starboard side, the frigate briefly backed its main tops’l to take the way off, and the pilot jumped aboard at the waist. The cutter, barely pausing in its progress, sheered away and veered abruptly, the massive boom swi
nging across the stern and laying her over on her larboard side as she took the first tack in her beat up to the convoy against the fresh easterly breeze.
‘I’m to take you to your anchorage, Mister,’ said the pilot as he climbed the quarterdeck ladder. He addressed himself to Hosking and studiously ignored Carlisle. ‘Just take in your courses now,’ he said, and turning to the wheel, ‘come up a point, quartermaster.’
Hosking had grown old dealing with pilots of all kinds and he knew this type well, the grizzled New Englander with a chip on his shoulder and an inbred dislike of King’s ships and King’s officers. A man with an indemnity against impressment and the security of tenure in lucrative employment.
‘Hold your course,’ snapped Hosking.
The quartermaster stood impassive. He’d had no intention of following the pilot’s orders until the master had directed him to do so. Neither had the bosun made any move towards his pipe. The hands at the sheets and braces stood immobile.
‘You’ll be addressing yourself to Captain Carlisle, Mister Pilot,’ replied Hosking, staring hard at the brown-clad figure. ‘When he’s happy with your proposal, we can discuss sails and steering.’
A range of emotions played over the pilot’s face. He dearly wanted to damn both Carlisle and Hosking to hell, but he could see the marine sergeant eyeing him, and he didn’t look like a man to be trifled with. And then there was the question of his fee. He’d have no chance of being paid if he didn’t have a signed paper from the captain or master. He half-turned towards Carlisle.
‘Your berth’s off the Dorchester Flats, South Battery west-southwest by five cables. Now, will you take in your courses and come up a point?’ he asked rudely.